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Chapter Text

Isabella heard him before she saw him: a huffy spiral of Italianate vowels bouncing off old wood as she neared Cardi's office.

"...my polso, eh? The wrist—my wrist! He does the—flick! He steals! Ladro! And look—look!"

She slipped inside. The office was a lived-in reliquary: heavy desk in neat chaos, incense curling from a dish, fan gifts—rosaries, cat trinkets—guarding the in-tray. Four Ghouls had squeezed around Cardi's chair like bodyguards at confession. Phantom held a phone aloft with the damning clip on loop; Swiss draped himself over the filing cabinet; Mountain anchored the door; Sodo had commandeered the arm of a leather chair, boot tapping time.

Isabella's black dress skimmed her knees, lace sleeves floating when she moved. A silver gruifix lay at her throat, bright against the black; her thumb found it by habit, rolling the cool cross as she took in the scene.

Onscreen: Papa V in purple, black gloves and a coy pause, then that quick flick—the wrist trick—and the room detonated in cheers. The Ghouls watched, then did the same silent shrug. It was harder for them; sometimes they went with V, sometimes with Cardi. Split loyalties, careful seams. Isabella patched those seams daily with schedules, coffee, and jokes.

Cardi looked up, saw her, and brightened like stained glass catching sun. "Bellissima! Come, subito." He beckoned with both hands, urgent as prayer. "You are unbiased. Scientific. You tell me—è il mio movimento? Is this my move?"

She slid into their little constellation, shoulder brushing Phantom's, and took the phone like a chalice. She watched twice, feeling him fidget beside her; he smelled of old paper and clean smoke.

"Hmm." She handed the phone back, thumb still resting on the gruifix. "It is yours."

He inhaled triumph—then caught. "Ma...?"

"But he does it like he's asking for permission," she said, eyes dancing. "You never ask, Papa. You don't need to them to adore you. They already do. That's the difference."

Swiss snorted; Sodo's grin went knife-bright; Mountain's shoulders suggested a smile; Phantom vibrated with pleased fairness.

Cardi straightened, pride knitting itself whole. "Sì. I tell. I command." He tugged his sash, somehow two inches taller. "And he... requests. Prego, per favore, applause."

"Exactly." Isabella let her grin turn wicked. "He's a beggar. You're a thief."

The Ghouls broke at once—Swiss clapped a hand over his heart; Sodo cackled; Phantom wheezed; Mountain rumbled like distant thunder.

Cardi tried not to smile and failed extravagantly. "A thief of hearts is... acceptable crime."

"Bare minimum for your job," she said. "Also, head of the clergy can't be seen sulking about wrist movements in the hallway—good thing this is your office. Fewer witnesses."

He glanced at the glass-front bookcase, catching a ghost of himself: cassock half-buttoned, gloves tucked into his belt, a smear of kohl at his jaw where makeup had kissed and lingered. He wiped it away, then looked past his reflection to the framed crowd photos on the shelf—faces lifted, hands outstretched toward a stage light.

"It is only..." His voice thinned. "When they cheer for him, I hear an echo under the cheer for me. I do not know if it is mercy or mockery. Do you understand?"

The gruifix was warm now beneath Isabella's fingers. She stepped closer, the little cross resting against the backs of her knuckles as she reached up and, with showman's care, set two fingers under his chin. "Look at me."

His mismatched eyes snapped back to hers.

"You were my first Papa," she said softly. "That doesn't wash off."

Behind them, the Ghouls made a courteous screen of bodies—averted gazes, a hush that said: this moment is allowed to be private.

Cardi swallowed. "Grazie."

"And for the record," she added, brightening the moment before it could tip into melancholy, "your wrist is classically and clearly better. Everyone prefers the original to the sequel."

Swiss gag-laughed. Sodo slid down the leather arm to save himself from collapsing. Phantom offered both hands like scales—Copia's wrist, V's wrist—and tipped dramatically toward Cardi. Mountain's shoulders shook in silent mirth.

Now Cardi's smile turned sly. "You will write that on the official letterhead?"

"I'll put it on a pillow," she promised, the gruifix clicking lightly as she dropped her hand. "But first—paperwork for V's tour. Or do you want me to schedule another fifteen minutes of righteous indignation?" She flipped open her notebook. "I can pencil in a tantrum, color-code it mauve."

He made the face he only made for her, a theatrical little grimace of embarrassment. "No. We do the paperwork. I will sign the things—" he flicked his wrist once, precise, "—without begging."

"Good boy," she teased, wicked and fond.

He blinked, then let the praise land where it wanted.

Swiss saluted. Sodo shot finger-guns. Phantom gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Isabella lingered one heartbeat longer, hand on the knob, eyes on Cardi. "You don't need their tricks," she said. "They need yours."

He held her gaze, the shy-cat smile returning.

"After you, Papa," she said, and slid the top folder across his desk.

The Ministry's outer office sounded like rain, though the windows were dry. It was Isabella, drumming a steady patter of rubber stamp on paper as she bulldozed through V's tour paperwork: permits, logistics, insurance riders that used the word egress enough times to become a threat. A neat line of highlighters stood at attention beside her blotter. The gruifix at her throat clicked gently against the desk each time she bent to initial.

She had just conquered a particularly smug indemnity clause when a familiar shadow eclipsed her notepad. Cardi strolled into her periphery with the tentative swagger of a cat entering a room that might already contain a vacuum.

"Ciao, bella segretaria," he said, hands tucked behind his back like contraband. "Hypothetical question."

"Mm?" Isabella didn't look up yet; she finished her signature, dotted the i with ruthless mercy, and set the page aside. "If this is about the coffee machine again Papa."

"Not coffee. My... camminata. The walk." He rocked heel-to-toe, experimental. "Maybe I should have a new one."

Now she looked up, mouth already curving. "A new walk, Papa?"

He nodded gravely. "Perhaps I must stand out more. He"—the pronoun arrived like a draft under a door—"does the... museum guide stroll. Polite, yes? Per favore, this way to the reliquaries. The people love it. Perhaps mine is... old. Maybe I am, how you say, antique."

"You are many things Papa," she said, uncapping a highlighter with her teeth. "Antique isn't one. Show me what you've got."

Cardi glanced left, right, then squared himself on the threadbare runner that stretched from her desk to his door. Swiss and Sodo's muffled bickering leaked through the corridor, along with a soft thunk that could only be Mountain depositing something heavy somewhere it would never move again. Phantom's hum skated past like a tuning fork testing the air.

Walk #1: The Panther. He slid forward, shoulders low, too many hips for a holy building.

Isabella tilted her head. "That's... bedroom. You are a dark lord."

Walk #2: The Relic. He stiffened into solemn procession, each step a Latin noun.

"Funeral," she said gently.

Walk #3: The Metronome. He tried to sync heel strikes to a rhythm only he could hear; his hands, restless, did little chirps at his sides.

She winced, affectionate. "That's nervous energy" She patted the desk. "Come here."

He obeyed at once—good boy lived under his skin now, warm and mortifying—and she rose to stand with him on the runner. The gruifix glinted when she moved; he tracked it like a sailor watching a lighthouse.

"Rule one," Isabella said, placing a fingertip between his shoulder blades. "Your shoulders are a stage. Don't let your doubts rent front-row seats." She pressed lightly; he let the tension drop.

"Rule two: You don't need more movement. You need less. Stillness reads as power. Save the flicks and flourishes like you save dessert."

He nodded, chastened, delighted, both. "Minimal dessert. Yes."

She crouched, tore two strips of tape, and set them on the runner—one a few paces from her desk, one just before his door. "Marks. Start here, stop there. The moment you hit the first tape, you belong to the room. The moment you hit the second, the room belongs to you."

"Ah." He considered the marks as if they were riddles. "And my hands?"

"Pocket and rosary," she said. "Right hand pockets the glove, left hand carries the rosary. If you need to punctuate a sentence, only then do you use the wrist."

He brightened. "Il polso."

"The famous one," she agreed. "But ration it."

He set himself on the start mark, breathing shallow. The ridiculousness of rehearsal in a hallway where she also fought insurance clauses did not touch him; he was absolute when he chose to be. Isabella stepped aside, but not far; her shoulder almost brushed his sleeve.

"Again," she said.

He walked. Not panther, not relic, not metronome. Just Cardi: a grounded glide, a patient weight through the heel, a pause on the first tape to let the air come to him. On the second tape, he stopped and looked—not at her, but at the empty door, as if a thousand people were gathered in its wooden grain. The quiet wrist—tiny, certain—sealed the claim.

Isabella exhaled like she'd been holding a match. "There he is."

A soft knock: Phantom's masked head popped around the corner, eyes bright. He gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up to nothing in particular and retreated.

Cardi looked sideways at her, hungry for verdict. "It is... acceptable?"

"It's you," she said. "And that's the point." She nudged his elbow. "One more time. This time think: I am the only cathedral in town."

He did it again. Fewer steps, more claim. When he stopped, she almost applauded; the gruifix clicked against her collarbone instead, a gentler percussion.

He squinted, suspicious of his own pride. "Is this how he does?"

"No," she said, bright and merciless. "It's how he'll try to do after he sees you."

His laugh came out surprised. Then his face softened. "You make me brave," he said quietly, as if admitting to a misdemeanor. "Even for walking."

She tipped her chin toward the paperwork stack. "Speaking of bravery—riders for V's additional dates. We need signatures and a blessing and probably an exorcism."

"Maledizione." He sagged into her guest chair, took the top folder, and flipped through with honest pain. "They want three kinds of sparkling water. Tre. Why?"

"So he can choose," she said. "Or so someone else can't."

"Petty," he said, awed. "I like." He signed, flicked the page, signed again. After the third signature he paused, eyes on his hand. "If I am... more still, will they see me?"

"They already do." She set her stamp down and, with the same motion, set her hand over his gloved one. "Stillness makes them lean in. You've always been worth leaning toward."

The silence that followed was comfortable and edged, like a couch with a ceremonial dagger tucked under the cushion. In the corridor, Swiss whistled something that nearly tried to be a love song before it remembered where it was and behaved.

"Another hypothetical," Cardi said at last, still not looking up. "If I needed... a new signature besides the wrist. Something small, but—how you say—mine."

Isabella's eyes lit. "Easy. You already do it."

He blinked. "I do?"

"You listen with your whole face," she said. "You tilt, you receive. Most leaders beam. You absorb."

He tried it on instinct—head angled, eyes intent, the makeup turning concentration into benediction. Even empty air felt chosen.

"There." She shivered and laughed at herself. "Weaponize that."

He touched the gruifix chain where it lay against her collarbone, not quite a touch to skin, asking and not taking. "You are very... good at this."

"I'm very good at you, Papa, years of practice" she said lightly, before the moment could drown them both. She slid the next folder over. "Initial here, sign there, and please do not adopt the anymore cats. HR will combust."

A beat, then his mouth went cat-sly. "But maybe a little... tail, for me...yes?" He swished an imaginary one; she swatted the air, scandalized on principle.

"Stand out by being the still point," she said, fighting a smile. "Let him skate. You anchor."

He signed the last page, set the pen down, and stood. The walk was already different—quieter, claimed. At the door, he paused on her second tape mark and turned, giving her the smallest nod as if she were a balcony full of devotees.

"Lunch?" he asked. "I will not beg." The faintest wrist.

"Good," she said, stacking the conquered forms. "I wasn't going to let you."

He offered his arm, mock-formal. She took it. They had made it exactly three steps toward the door when the floor tremored once—a polite earthquake that always meant Mountain was in a hurry.

The drummer skidded to a dignified halt in the doorway, mask slightly askew, phone held out like a sacrament. Behind him, Swiss and Sodo jostled for position; Phantom peeked around Mountain's shoulder, already vibrating with mischief.

"New song!" Mountain rumbled, breathless with the effort of using only one word. "Lachryma." He thumbed the screen. The video sprang to life: V center-stage, a swelling melody that curled like smoke—and then a flourish. A broad, airy sweep of the arms, cape flared wide.

Cardi gasped, hand flying to his chest. "Le mie ali! My wings. He has my wings!"

Swiss made an innocent halo shape with his hands. Sodo failed to smother a laugh. Phantom immediately mimed the move with embarrassing accuracy, little cape-flips and all.

Isabella rolled her eyes skyward so hard the saints probably ducked. "Boys. Behave. Or no dessert for anyone."

Four world-class agents of chaos deflated in unison. Shoulders slumped. Swiss tucked his hands behind his back. Sodo stared at the ceiling as if it had betrayed him. Phantom hid half his mask behind Mountain, who very deliberately locked his phone and put it away.

"Thank you," Isabella said sweetly, then turned to Cardi, voice dropping to a softer register. "Papa. Look at me." She touched his sleeve, then the gruifix, then—briefly—his wrist, grounding him as surely as if she'd set a candle in his ribs.

"He can flap all he likes," she murmured. "You don't need wings. You have gravity. Different magic."

Cardi's breathing eased; the first flare of offended-cat smoothed into something wryer. "Different magic," he echoed, testing the words. "Yes."

Isabella tipped her chin toward the sulking Ghouls. "Now. Apologies to Papa for tormenting him before lunch?"

Swiss bowed with courtly flourish. Sodo executed a melodramatic stage-penance. Phantom signed a sloppy sorry in the air; Mountain added a small, sincere nod.

"Accepted," Cardi pronounced, magnanimous again. He looked to Isabella for confirmation like a child winning back recess. She gave him the smallest smile.

"Lunch," she repeated, reclaiming his arm. "And afterward we'll watch Lachryma together and make a list of the things only you can do. Let him keep the flapping."

"Va bene," he said, lighter now. On the runner he paused at her tape mark and shot the Ghouls a look that was all stillness and claim. The tiniest wrist. The Ghouls shivered, chastened and delighted.

"After you, Papa," Isabella said, and this time they made it to lunch.

Chapter Text

The outer office looked like a paper tide had rolled in and politely arranged itself. Isabella sat in the eye of it, signing off the stack Cardi had—quite obviously—avoided: wardrobe approvals for V's tour. Fabric invoices. Cape maintenance schedules. Beadwork insurance, which apparently was a real thing. The gruifix at her throat tapped a quiet metronome against her collarbone every time she leaned in to initial.

Something squeaked down the corridor. Once. Twice.

Then: squeak-squeak-squeak—

"Attenzione!"

Cardi swung into view riding a tricycle—an absurd, gleaming prop, too small by half—cassock flaring, knees ridiculous, one shoe skidding for balance as he took the corner. The trike wobbled. For one horrifying beat Isabella pictured the incident report phrase collision with children's vehicle. Then he righted it, rang the tiny handlebar bell with outrageous dignity, and pedaled straight toward her desk like a solemn circus.

Isabella didn't look up until the front wheel kissed the edge of her rug. Then she raised her eyes over the laptop, perfectly unimpressed.
"Is that your new walk, Papa? The crowd will go wild."

He parked with a flourish and set the kickstand like a man performing last rites. "It is a...on trial. Very modern."

From the doorway, Swiss coughed a laugh.

Isabella arched a brow. She knew the others were close. "Ghouls. Did you help him smuggle a tricycle into the sacred halls?"

Four masks arranged themselves into approximations of innocence.

"Behave," she said sweetly. "Or no dessert for anyone."

They deflated in unison. Swiss tucked his hands behind his back; Sodo studied the ceiling; Phantom hid half his mask behind Mountain, who very deliberately pocketed his phone.

Cardi leaned on the bars, chastened and faintly pleased to be chastened. His eyes slid to the stack on her desk. "You are... doing the terrible papers I did not do."

"Yes," Isabella said, stamping APPROVED on a linen order. "Someone has to let V's capes exist." She slid a form toward him and tapped the signature line. "And someone else has to sign where you avoided it."

He took the pen with a sigh large enough to move curtains. "It is not that I cannot. It is that when I see 'V' and 'wardrobe,' my hand goes on... artistic strike."

"Understandable," she said. "Unhelpful."

He signed. Flicked the page. Signed again. After the third signature he paused, sheepish. "When I rode the... tricycle, I thought: if I can laugh, maybe I can also sign."

"Exposure therapy by children's vehicle," she said, mouth curving.

"It is working, I think."

She reached across and set two fingers lightly on his wrist. The tiny pulse settled under her touch. "It is. Also: no more riding tricycles in the office. If you hurt yourself, thats a lot more paperwork Papa"

"Even if I do it very majestically?"

"Outside only" She said with a smile.

Something in his shoulders let go. He set the pen down, squared himself, and walked—simply—around the tricycle to her side, pausing on the tape mark she'd planted there days ago.

He exhaled, amused at how much he needed to hear it. "I will sign three more if you say again the thing about the crowd."

"Deal." She slid the next forms over. "The crowd will always go wild for you Papa. And you won't need wings."

"Because I have gravity," he finished, a little proud.

"Because you have gravity," she echoed with a smile. "Now sign."

He did, steady as a drumline. In the hall, Swiss tiptoed past with a tray of pastries, hope radiating off him. Isabella didn't even glance up. The Ghouls disappeared before she could remember to rescind dessert.

When the last page was conquered, Cardi capped the pen with ceremony. "We have defeated V's wardrobe."

"For today." She anchored the stack with a cat-shaped paperweight. He eyed it, betrayed. She smirked. "A metaphor. Not an adoption."

He laughed—soft, unguarded—and nudged the trike out of the walkway with the side of his shoe. "Lunch?"

"Lunch," she agreed, standing. He offered his arm; she took it. They left the tricycle parked like a retired sin and stepped out together—no wheels, no wings—the room settling around their pace as if it had been waiting for it all morning.

Dinner at the Ministry was a long, echoing affair: a refectory table big enough to seat a small coup, candles guttering in iron sconces, bowls and platters marching down the center like obedient planets. The Ghouls occupied one flank in a configuration that could only be described as rowdy but trying. Isabella and Cardi had taken the quieter end, near a window where night pressed its face to the glass.

Ten minutes in, Isabella had counted twelve distinct fidgets from Cardi. Fork adjusted. Napkin squared. Chair scooted half an inch, then half again. Glass rotated. Plate aligned with the wood grain as if the wood would notice.

At last she set down her knife and looked at him over the rim of her water. "All right, I'll bite" she said, amused. "What, exactly, are you doing?"

He froze mid-micro-adjustment, then wilted into honesty. "I need to lean better."

She blinked. "To... lean."

"Yes." He gestured helplessly at the table, at the room, at the concept of posture. "When one is head of clergy at dinner, one must sometimes lean—for listening, for choosing, for blessing the bread"

Her mouth curved. "Proceed, then. Demonstrate."

He brightened, scooted his chair a hair, and began a series.

Lean #1: The Sultry. He draped an elbow on the table, shoulder dropped, chin tilted, eyes heavy-lidded with scandal. It was... operatic.

From mid-table, Swiss made a strangled noise into his wine. Sodo choked on a crouton. Phantom clapped once, very quietly, because he knew he shouldn't.

Isabella kept a straight face by pure devotion. "That's not a lean," she said sweetly. "That's an invitation. We are at dinner, Papa, not confession after midnight."

He straightened, abashed, delighted. "Okay, okay."

Lean #2: The Serious. Both forearms braced symmetrically, spine arrow-straight, gaze intent enough to interrogate a saint.

"Trial," Isabella ruled, tilting her head. "You look like you're about to deliver a sermon no one signed up for."

He tried again.

Lean #3: The Pilgrim. Hands folded, shoulders humble, chin tucked. It read as penance.

"Too much apology," she murmured. "You're not sorry for existing."

He wobbled, then grinned. "And now... a historical homage." He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders back, and slid into Lean #4: Papa Nihil, complete with a raspy mocking voice: "Ehhh, bambini, in my day we leaned into the void, you understand? The darkness leaned back. Sometimes it took your food. That was the style."

The Ghouls lost structural integrity as a unit. Sodo slammed a palm on the table to keep from howling; Phantom shook silently, mask bobbing; even Mountain's shoulders made an unmistakable quake.

Isabella lifted a single warning finger, eyes glittering. "Careful. Keep that up and Papa Nihil will phantom in and spook you from over your shoulder."

Cardi's eyes flicked to the empty air behind him on pure survival instinct. "He will not," he declared—to the air, to fate, to the old man's memory. "Right?." he said it slow, he kept looking behind him leading to a small giggle escape Isabella.

"Mm. Try again. Think of it like the walking lesson. Stillness first. Then a tilt that says, 'I am listening.' Not prowling. Not apologizing. Receiving."

He inhaled, exhaled, and set himself. Elbow grazed the table but didn't collapse onto it; shoulder relaxed without drooping; chin angled just enough to make attention look inevitable, not predatory. He looked, simply, present.

The air around them adjusted, subtle as a bowstring warming. Conversation a few seats away dimmed half a notch without knowing why.

Isabella felt the click of it in her bones. "There," she said softly. "That one."

He held it, cautious, as if he'd spook it. "This?"

"That," she confirmed. "Lean like the room is a secret you're about to be told. You love secrets"

"I do love secrets" He nodded.

He tested a micro-variation—two degrees more angle—and the candle flame between them leaned too, conspiratorial.

Cardi relaxed into the pose a breath deeper, then couldn't help himself. In a tiny gravel of Nihil again: "In my era we called this the Consecrated Tilt."

"Enough," Isabella warned, laughing despite herself. "Any more Nihil and you'll wake him like a a horror story."

A draft feathered through the refectory. One end candle guttered out with theatrical timing.

Cardi froze. "...He is not here," he said, much too quickly.

"No," Isabella assured, biting the inside of her cheek.

They breathed. The candle steadied. The Ghouls, to their credit, pretended nothing had happened at all and also failed completely.

Isabella tapped the table once. "Hold the lean for five breaths. The universe is yours Papa"

He did. On the fifth, he smiled without breaking the line, a small, private thing that felt like granting a wish.

"Perfect," she said.

He let the posture go and, emboldened by survival, leaned in one last exaggerated inch and murmured, "And if the universe is sitting across from me with a gruifix and a very sharp tongue?"

"Then the universe reminds you to eat while your soup is still soup," she said, nudging his spoon into his hand. "And to stop tormenting the dead."

He obeyed, grinning down at the bowl like it had just applauded. The rest of dinner settled into the ordinary clatter of family. But every so often Isabella caught him catching her, angle precise, attention warm, as if he were practicing the lean only for her.

Chapter Text

Isabella was sorting mail when the weather changed.

You could always tell when Papa V was near. The air got a little perfumed, footsteps softened, and the Ministry's noisy machinery of errands and schedules turned to look without admitting it had. She slid a letter opener along a padded envelope, the gruifix at her throat winking, and then he was there in her doorway—purple like a bruise, smile like a wine stain.

"Sister Isabella," he purred, setting two fingers to his chest in a theatrical pledge. "You grow lovelier every time I'm forced to fill out a form because of you."

"Forms keep us honest," she said, friendly as a bell. "And you on tour." she said smiling.

He laughed; it was an elegant sound designed to make other people feel expensive. "Then I shall sign them twice. Is that a new pendant?" He tipped his head, admiring the cross with the casual intimacy that lived in his hands and eyes both.

"Same one," Isabella said, touching the chain. "New light."

"I knew it was the light," he sighed, mock-smitten. "Forgive me, I flirt."

He was always like this—harmless, generous until the generosity made someone else feel small.

Cardi.

She let it wash over her with practiced warmth, kept his gaze for exactly the number of seconds that was polite, and no more.

"I came to steal five minutes," he said, leaning his elbow on the edge of her desk as if it were built for him. "The crew swears Lachryma wants more fog, and Swiss assures me only you can conjure fog from a budget line."

"Fog we can do," Isabella said. "I'll have it handled by this afternoon"

He blinked, she could tell he wanted to ask something else.

Her lips parted to ask before movement in the hall caught his attention.

Cardi had stepped out of his office, file in hand, the new, quiet carriage they'd practiced still strange on him—shoulders unhooked, chin easy, presence that didn't chase anyone and didn't run. He saw V at Isabella's desk, saw the tilt of his body toward her, and the smallest muscle in his cheek flickered. Instinct said leave. He turned to go, hoping the hallway might swallow him whole.

"Cardi!" Papa V sang, not even looking first. "Caro, don't be shy. Come—vieni."

Cardi stopped in profile like a caught saint in a carved procession. Isabella's eyes flicked up to him and back down again, the discreet benediction that said, you decide. For a heartbeat he considered pretended deafness. Then he made himself turn, made himself come, step by dignified step, as if each floorboard were a mark he'd chosen.

"Papa," he said, stopping just shy of her tape mark. He didn't quite face V; he faced Isabella, and let V find him from there.

V took him in with bright appraisal, cruel only if you let it be. "You are well, I hope? Swiss sent me a clip of your... walk. Very smooth. One might even say—" he lifted his hand and made a tiny flourish "—restrained."

"Still," Cardi said. "Not restrained."

"Ah," V said, amused. "And what is the difference?"

"Choice," Isabella said mildly, before Cardi's mouth could argue with itself. She slid the fog budget across the desk. "Papa V, the numbers. If you sign here, we'll make your stage look like a haunted baptism."

V smiled at her for that, fully. "You see why I come?" He didn't move to sign yet. "She is just..no wonder he keeps you hidden" Papa V said smiling before he watched Cardi watching Isabella and, just for sport, turned the flirtation up a notch. "You would be very dangerous on my tour, Sister. Imagine—every city, a miracle, the crowd in love with my—our—you would be devastating."

Isabella laughed because that was the safest answer and because laughter was a tool. "Tempting. Alas, someone has to keep the head of the clergy from adopting another prop with wheels or another cat."

V's gaze sharpened—only a little—but he did not look at the tricycle tucked around the corner. "I heard a bell earlier," he said idly. "Joy rides?"

"Sanity rides," Isabella returned. "Limited edition to our special Cardi" She said with a kind smile.

Cardi's fingers worked at the edge of the file. The old injury, the new temptation to bark, mine, mine, mine. He swallowed it. Instead he shifted his weight a fraction and used the receiving lean she'd taught him, turning toward them as if he were a door opening. It changed the weather again—barely; enough.

He took the pen Isabella offered, spun it once between gloved fingers as if every act were theater, and signed the fog line with a flourish. "A question, Cardi," he added without looking up. "Might I borrow your secretary for an hour this week? She is devastating with a spreadsheet."

Isabella didn't change expression.

"No," Cardi said, so gently it almost sounded like later. He didn't look at V when he said it; he looked at Isabella, the locus of the actual question. "She is already scheduled. With me."

"Busy busy," V murmured. "Then I shall steal her smiles instead." He flicked his gaze to Isabella and gave her one—practiced, molten.

She gave it back, friendly as a posted office hours sign. "Enjoy the fog, Papa V."

He sighed theatrically and finished signing. "There. A haunted baptism it shall be." He slid the pen back, then cocked his head at Cardi in mock magnanimity. "Before I go—may I compliment you? The wrist was... elegant in Spain. I almost felt you in mine. You see? A collaboration maybe?"

Cardi's mouth edged into something not quite a smile. "I see."

V's eyes parted him like curtains, searching for offense. When he didn't find the bite he wanted, he reached for banter. "Don't sulk, caro. We are all one church. We share."

"Share. Indeed you both should." Isabella said pleasantly.

For the first time, V's laugh faltered. Only a sliver. Then he applauded her line with small, delighted claps. "And this is why she is everyone's favorite." A beat of real charm. "Truly—grazie, Sister. You make even my devilish side feel holy." He bowed, just enough.

To Cardi: "Until the next miracle."

He was gone a heartbeat later, sweep of purple down the corridor, the scent of his cologne arguing with the incense like rival homilies.

Silence returned in a series of clicks: pen cap, drawer slide, a high-heeled step somewhere far away.

Cardi let air out slow. "I tried to leave. He saw me."

"I know," she said, amused and tender in the same breath.

He swallowed. "He always looks like he invented my tricks."

"Then invent newer ones." She turned the signed budget, stamped it, and set it aside. "Or do the old ones without apology. Gravity, remember?"

His eyes softened at the word. "I remember."

She reached up and straightened the curve of his collar where V's breeze had tilted it. The gruifix brushed his knuckles. "Hungry?"

"For what?"

"Dessert," she said, wickedly sweet. "Provided you don't adopt anything with pedals on the way."

"I will walk," he promised, and proved it—two steps of the new quiet he owned, stopping on her tape as if it loved him. He turned, met only her eyes, and did the smallest wrist in the world—no audience, no beg, only choice.

Isabella appears with two bowls like a magician with better priorities.

"Bribery," she says, setting one in front of him. "Stracciatella for you, pistachio for me."

Cardi blinks at the cold, then at her, then at the small metal spoons she's already warmed in her palms. His makeup catches the lamplight; his mismatched eyes soften.

"You bring me ice cream to stop me sulking?" he teases.

"I bring you ice cream because I like when you smile," she says, simple as a fact. She leans in to nudge his bowl closer. "Eat, Papa."

He does. First bite, cautious. Second bite, genuine. The third is accompanied by a small noise that would embarrass him if he knew he'd made it.

They sit on the edge of his office sofa, knees almost touching, the rest of the Ministry muted to a distant hum. He relaxes by degrees, spoon tapping the porcelain in a slow rhythm.

"What's your favorite memory from touring?" Isabella asks, soft and kind, as if she's asking which star he likes best. "Tell me some stories, Papa."

He stares into the whiteness as if stories might surface there on their own. They do.

"Once," he says, "in Helsinki, the power dipped. Everything went dark except the exit signs and Mountain. He glows in the dark, you know this." The corner of his mouth lifts. "We could not play the track, so Swiss started this silly little whistling thing—like a ghost pretending to be a kettle—and the crowd... they hummed with us. No lights, just voices. For three minutes I was nothing and everything at once. That is nice."

Isabella smiles into her spoon. "That sounds so beautiful."

He nods, warmed now.

"In Mexico City a small boy—eight, maybe—wore a cape made from a shower curtain. He stood on his seat so serious, he had my make up on his face. A tiny little ghoul. I did the wrist for him, only for him, and he did the wrist back." Cardi does it now, reflexively—tiny, certain. "After, the crew brought me a drawing. Stick figure me with... many teeth." He grins, showing none of them. "I keep it in the desk."

"Show me later," she says. She's leaning on her hands now listening to him.

"In Berlin we were late because Sodo tried to teach Phantom how to swear in Italian thinking it was German" Papa shook his head "and then they got us lost in a loading bay." He tips his spoon toward the door as if they might burst in to prove his point. "We found the stage, five minutes before curtain drop. I ran, I gasped, I thought: I will die in this cassock, yes? But then the first note—" He snaps once, quiet. "—and I was alive again. The room did the breathing for me. It felt like electricity hearing them call for me"

Isabella turns the spoon in her fingers, listening with her whole face. "Another."

He thinks. The smile changes, smaller and a shade older.

"In Rome we finished a show and it rained making sure everyone had a reason to cry that day. The crew ran, the fans ran, we stood under the lip of the stage—Sister Imperator scolding, of course—and Swiss played a ridiculous little chord, like eh–eh–ehhh." He mimics the wobble. "I kept thinking, this is ridiculous and I never want it to stop."

She watches the way the memories unfurl him. "And your favorite favorite?"

He looks down, surprised to find the bowl nearly empty. He scrapes up one last island of stracciatella and thinks, cheeks going soft in a way that always feels like taking off armor.

"In Copenhagen," he says at last, "someone tossed a toy onto the stage. Not the usual thing. It was... a cat toy." He gestures, embarrassed. "A little rat with the tail. I nearly stepped on it during Year Zero. I bent to pick it up, very solemn, like it was the Host, and I put it in my pocket. The crowd laughed and cheered. After the show I sat on the stairs and Sodo came to me with a bottle of water and we just listened to the fans leaving outside. All their happy voices, singing my songs, I can still hear them. Chanting my name...Papa...Papa...Papa. I like that."

Isabella's eyes glow. "I like that too."

He eats another bite he doesn't need, delaying the sudden heat at the back of his throat. "You asked for some. Is enough?"

"It's perfect," she says, and steals a small spoon from his bowl. "I like the way you tell them. How you keep the bits most people wouldn't notice."

"That is also how you do," he says, and nudges her knee with his. "You see the quiet things."

She taps the gruifix once, the little click like a bell. "Tell me one more tiny thing. The smallest."

He grins, helpless to refuse her when she asks like that. "In Glasgow, a girl on the rail had one eye black and one eye white." He gestures at his own. "She shook so much with excitement that she cried, and her make up ran down her cheek. She didn't care. She was joy with legs. I pointed—like this—" The smallest nod and he pointed at Isabella. "—and she did not see me because she was too busy having the best day of her life. I liked that. The way the world didn't need to look back to be true."

Isabella breathes out, full. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me have your best parts for ten minutes." She sets her empty bowl aside and shifts, closer without making a fuss about it. "You know you can... keep these. Even when you're signing fog budgets for someone else's tour."

He looks at her hand, at the resting place it has found on his sleeve. "I forget."

"I'll remind you." A beat. "Frequently. With ice cream."

He laughs, and there it is—the smile she wanted. Not the stage smile, not the brave one. The one that makes the room feel like a home.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asks, tilting toward her without realizing.

"Memory?" she says. "This one. You, smiling with stracciatella on your lip."

He rubs his mouth on the back of his glove, horrified, then even more horrified when she catches his wrist and uses her thumb to get the last of it, gentle as a blessing.

"Grazie," he murmurs.

"Anytime," she says, and releases him before the moment gets scared and runs. "Tomorrow you can tell me about the worst memories. I'll fix those too."

He sits back, content in a way that doesn't require applause. "You will."

"I will," Isabella promises. "Finish your ice cream, Papa."

He savors the last bite smiling as he watches Isabella wash her dish.

Chapter Text

The office lamp made a warm circle on the desk and not much else. Paper filled the circle like snow that had decided to sit down and behave: drafts, cross-outs, a list of dates that were not his.

Papa sat very straight, pen poised and useless above the page. His makeup was immaculate, but his mouth had the set of someone trying not to bruise when they breathed. Every so often he wrote a line, stared at it, and drew a careful line through the middle as if he were blessing it goodbye.

"We are thrilled to announce—"
line through it.
"The Clergy proudly presents—"
line through it.
"Papa V will—"
the line hesitated, then kept going.

Out at her desk, Isabella pretended to work. She shuffled mail. She dated forms. She didn't touch the bowl she'd brought in and set within reach of his elbow—lemon sorbet, because he'd liked the stracciatella too much not to need a palate reset. The gruifix at her throat clicked against her blouse when she leaned over the calendar and didn't turn the page.

Silence grew a spine between them.

He started again.

"Brothers, Sisters, and all in between—our Church continues its pilgrimage. I have the honor—"
the nib hovered, then pressed; he underlined honor twice, as if punctuation could make a feeling true.

Isabella watched the way his shoulders tried to curl in and remembered to breathe for both of them. She let the quiet stand a few beats more, then spoke to the room instead of to him, gentle and sideways.

"Are you okay Papa?" Isabella asks soft, her hand stroking his hair slightly.

He didn't look up. "I am sure of very little today."

"Oh I doubt that is true Papa. You can be sure of dessert"

That pulled his eyes to her. A small smile. His black and white eyes pinned on her. "If I tell the truth, I will say I am not going and I am... sad." He tried to smile and missed. "This is not the good television. No one wants to see or hear a sad Papa"

"Be you Papa. Thats all you need." she said.

He stared at the page. Wrote.

"I am not going on tour."
He let the sentence sit there naked. The pen trembled once; he anchored it with his other hand.
"I will be here—building, tending, listening—so that when you come home, there is more of us to come home to."

His breath left him like a held note. He set the pen down as if it might bite him. "It sounds like I am... abandoned."

"It sounds like you are choosing work that doesn't clap or scream at you." Isabella pushed the sorbet an inch closer.

He looked at the bowl, surprised to find it there. "You are a witch."

"I am a woman of many spells, Papa," she said bowing to him, and when he huffed, the room softened. "Try the first paragraph aloud."

He thought. Wrote.

"Do not fear—I will still practice my wrist."
He added: "On budgets. And occasionally on the cat."
He scratched out the cat. "No cats," he muttered, and she smiled because he would defiantly practice on the cats.

He tried again. "Do not fear—I will still practice my wrist..."

"There he is," she murmured.

He tasted the sorbet. Winced at the cold. Took another bite anyway. "When I say his name," he said into the spoon, "I taste metal."

"Then don't," she said. "You don't owe him your mouth Papa. You owe the crowd your steadiness." She tapped his draft. "Say 'the tour' like you're setting a chalice down. No extra shine."

He nodded, wrote:

"The tour will be beautiful. The work here must be beautiful, too."
"Both are ours."

His hand stopped shaking.

The hum of the Ministry went by at the door and respected the line of quiet inside.

Isabella got up without announcing the decision and came to stand at his shoulder. She didn't look over the speech. She looked at him. After a moment she let her hand rest on his wrist—two fingers, light pressure, the old grounding.

"Your best voice," she said softly.

He drew a breath like a swimmer deciding to surface. Then he read the whole thing from the top, and the room changed temperature. No false brightness. A few places where the smile showed he could still be funny if he wanted to be, but didn't need to be.

When he finished.

"It is good?" he asked, and it wasn't vanity. It was a child asking if the drawing looked like a house.

"It's you," she said. "And that's what they come for."

He looked down at the sentence Both are ours and touched it like a relic. "I wish to be a little selfish," he admitted, voice almost too low to catch. "Just a little."

"You're writing the blessing," Isabella said, thumb brushing once over bone. "You're allowed to keep a word for yourself."

He angled toward her without thinking—the lean—and it landed exactly where it should: not sultry, not sorry, simply open.

"Then I keep this," he said, tapping one word. Ours.

"Good choice," she said. "Eat your sorbet before it remembers it's water"

He caught her hand before she could go far and pressed it, quick, grateful, formal like a vow and casual like survival. "Stay until I finish it."

"I'll stay," Isabella said, returning to her desk.

He wrote. She watched, and didn't save him, and saved him anyway. Outside, the world kept building a stage for someone else. Inside, he built a different one, word by small word, and she held the light.

The rehearsal room was all cables and half-finished jokes when Isabella checked her watch and decided it was time to herd cats.

"Okay, boys, listen up." She clapped once. "Sodo, Phantom—guitars. Tight and mean, dirty. What am I talking about, Sodo has that covered.

He raised his hands almost shocked.

"Its true. I've seen you do Mummy Dust. You make the girls sin" she pointed to Mountain. "Mountain—drums. Swiss—vocals, and you're covering for the girls too; they're probably stuck with V. Quick sound check and hold until I'm back."

Swiss threw her a salute; Sodo twirled a pick like a dagger; Phantom vibrated yes; Mountain rolled a stick across his knuckles and made it vanish. Isabella smiled despite herself and turned toward the door—

"Isabella?"

It floated down the hall like a question misplacing its shoes.

"Isabella!"

Closer. Then farther. Then closer again, as if he were searching in loops. She could tell by the volume which corridor he was in, by the echo which corner he'd taken. It was a talent born of too many days listening for him without making him feel watched.

She pointed at the band. "Wait here and get ready. Count in on my hand. No showing off."

They nodded. She slipped out, heels ticking, the gruifix tapping lightly with each step.

"Isabella—bella...ella...ella? Where—ah—"

She found Cardi halfway down the archive corridor, standing between two identical doors like a pilgrim at a riddle. His cassock was tidy, his hair not; he held a folder of speech drafts he wasn't reading. When he saw her he tried to look casual and looked exactly like a man caught trying to look casual.

"There you are," he said, as the relief swept over him.

"Were you practicing hide-and-seek without me, Papa?"

He pretended offense for one second, then let it go. "I called, and you did not answer, and then the hallway became...just more hallways." A helpless little shrug. "I needed you."

She closed the distance, set two fingers over his wrist—light, sure. The pulse steadied under her touch like a candle deciding not to gutter. "I'm here. I was sorting something with the Ghouls."

His eyes flicked past her shoulder. "Trouble?"

"Only fun." She tipped her head toward rehearsal. "Come. You're required."

"For what?"

"To perform."

He almost tripped. "Adesso?"

"Adesso." She pushed open the rehearsal room. Cables, amps, and her favorite chaos. "Boys?" she called. "Places."

Sodo and Phantom materialized with guitars; Mountain settled behind the kit like a mountain pretending to be furniture; Swiss sidled to the mic with a grin that swore to mischief and delivered professionalism instead.

Isabella dragged a lonely road case front and center and sat on it, knees together, hands folded over the gruifix at her throat. The room made a hush around her.

"Please Papa," Isabella said, settling herself on the road case at center like it was a throne. "A show. For me."

Swiss's grin went feral. Sodo rolled his shoulders like a prizefighter; Phantom bounced on his toes; Mountain clicked his sticks once, twice—ready.

Cardi looked at her, at them, at the taped X on the floor that had become his anchor. Then something in him unlatched. "For you," he agreed, and stepped into it.

They opened with "Square Hammer." No speeches, just downbeat. Sodo's riff snapped the air into place; Mountain drove the room forward; Swiss took the melody like he'd been born holding it. Cardi didn't chase—he received. One step. A pause. The wrist—small, certain—like a key turning. That smile. His glow.

Isabella whooped before she remembered to be composed, then decided against composure entirely. She clapped over her head, laughing, the gruifix flashing like a strobe.

"Again!" she yelled between songs.

They obliged. "Rats." "Spillways." A bruise-sweet "Cirice" where he let the vocal go hushed and dangerous, choosing her with his eyes on every phantom call-and-response. She mouthed back the parts without sound, chest tight with the way he was enjoying this—no crowd to swallow him, only her to hold it.

"I can feel the thunder that's breaking in your heart. I can see through the scars inside you" He reached out to Isabella as she did back. Their fingers brushing. "I can feel the thunder that's breaking in your heart. I can see through the scars inside you"

Her eyes beamed up at him singing with him. "Can't you see that you're lost without me?"

Papa pulled back, that small smile breezed his lips.

Swiss tried a little extra flourish; Isabella giggled. Sodo and Phantom traded licks that would have gotten them scolded in front of Sister Imperator; here, they earned a cheer. Mountain was smooth and steady.

Between songs Cardi started to banter—awkward, sweet, the stage cat creeping back. "Ehm... welcome to our... very exclusive engagement," he said, spreading his hands. "Two tickets only. One empty because I am shy."

Isabella cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. "You're perfect, Papa!"

He preened, delighted, then caught himself and sank back into the still point. "Kiss the Go-Goat." He pointed at her on the first chorus and she absolutely became a fan girl, kicking her heels against the case, hair shaking, clapping on two and four like a sinner with rhythm.

They eased the room down with "Dance Macabre."

Swiss turning his voice to silk. Cardi's voice went reverent and mischievous at once, a benediction that didn't need any altar but her face.

And then he glanced at her, and she knew what was coming before he said it. He didn't say it—he started it.

"Mary on a Cross."

Sodo's guitar went honey-dark; Phantom tucked under him with a ghost line. Halfway through the first verse Cardi crossed the floor and knelt—not showy, not begging—down on one knee in front of her, looking up like she was the last pew left on earth.

"You go down just like Holy Mary. Mary on a, Mary on a cross. Your beauty never ever scared me

Mary on a, Mary on a cross.

If you choose to run away with me" he reached out to her, his leather fingers brushing her cheek softly. Her eyes closed for a moment. Her inner fangirl absorbing the moment.

"I will tickle you internally...And I see nothing wrong with that"

He held it strong and firm. His voice echoed like an angel through the room.

He sang it to her, every rise and fall riding the distance between his mouth and her grin. Isabella's hands flew to her cheeks; she giggled, actually giggle-gasped, then clapped like a teenager at rail. She leaned in, eyes bright-wet from joy, and fed him applause between phrases as if it were oxygen.

"Bravissimo!" she cried when he held a note just for the spite of holding it. "Again—again!"

He did, laughing into the melody, that open, unhiding laugh that she'd been hoarding with ice cream. Swiss arched a harmony over them like stained glass; Mountain gave the moment a spine; Sodo and Phantom swayed closer, grinning like idiots because this was the Church they signed up for.

By the outro Isabella was on her feet on the road case, hands up, cheering him on like a stadium all by herself. He closed the song with the smallest wrist—a promise, not a plea—and she nearly fell off the case from clapping.

"Encore!" she shouted, already breathless. "I'm not done being in love with this!"

They burned through a last trio—"Year Zero," "Call Me Little Sunshine," Cardi grew bigger without getting louder: owning silence, rationing motion, turning to her whenever a choice was required. The private room felt like an arena because he decided it did. Ending with a quiet "Stay"

Isabella placed her hand on her heart, his husky voice was smooth and soft like silk. He was down on his knees again looking at Isabella.

"I'll go anywhere with you. Just wrap me up in chains. But if you try to go out alone" He paused, his gloved hand brushed her cheek softly. "Don't think I'll understand" She opened her eyes to his soft glare upon her like a sin. "Stay with me. Stay with me" He brushed up onto his feet dancing around like he did so graciously.

"You'd better hope and pray. That you make it safe. Back to your own world. You'd better hope and pray. That you wake one day" He pointed and danced like the room was full of cheering, adoring fans.

"In your own world. 'Cause when you sleep at night. They don't hear your cries in your own world. Only time will tell. If you can break the spell. Back in your own world" His voice softened as his gaze returned to Isabella "Stay....wont you stay with me" He reached out to her once again, her fingers grasping his leather glove as he placed a kiss on the back of her hand.

When it was finally done, Swiss let the last note fall like confetti. Silence landed soft.

Isabella hopped down, heart hammering, face split open with a grin that hurt. She didn't rush him. She applauded, proper, until her palms stung.

"That," she said, bright and certain, "was the best show I have ever seen."

He looked wrecked in the good way—makeup perfect, edges melted, the human under the paint glowing. "You were a very good crowd," he managed, breathless. "The best"

"Audience of one. Worst menace of all."

He leaned—present, open, happy in his bones. "Do I get... dessert?"

"You get everything," she said, wicked and fond. "But we'll start with ice cream." She turned to the Ghouls, who were vibrating like tuned wires. "And you four? Dessert approved. You've earned it."

Sodo whooped; Phantom rang the tiny trike bell in triumph; Swiss blew her a kiss; Mountain simply beamed.

Isabella looked back at Papa, still kneeling, still smiling up at her like the miracle had happened to him. She offered her hand. He took it and rose, easy, no rush, the room leaning toward him as if it were built for that.

They ate on the road case like it was a café table, legs swinging, bowls balanced on knees—stracciatella for him again, pistachio for her. The rehearsal room had gone quiet.

Isabella tapped her spoon against the rim, the gruifix catching the light when she turned toward him. "We can do this weekly—if you can handle it," she teased.

Papa froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Weekly?" His eyes widened theatrically, then softened. "I will... attempt to survive such joy. But you must cheer like a very unholy angel."

She flashed him the grin that shook him loose. "I can do sinful cherub."

He laughed, real and unguarded. They ate a few quiet mouthfuls, the kind of silence that knows it's safe. He watched her from under his lashes and then, shy-cat brave, held out a spoonful of his stracciatella. She leaned in and let him feed her; the room tilted pleasantly.

"Good?" he asked.

"Dangerous," she said, licking a fleck from her lip. "You'll get used to me rewarding you with dessert."

"I am already spoiled." He set his bowl aside, wiped his mouth on the back of his glove, and caught himself before a spiral could start. "Isabella... grazie. For the show. For the... face you made when I sang."

"That one's yours to keep."

He went a little pink under the paint and hid it with a tiny wrist, just for her. "Then put it on the calendar," he murmured, mock-formal. "Audience of One. Weekly."

She laughed, delighted. "Consider it booked."

He shifted closer on the case so their knees knocked, then looked at her like a man choosing a pew. "I can handle it," he said, gentle but certain.

"I know," she answered, tapping the gruifix once like a bell. "Finish your ice cream, Papa. You'll need your strength."

"For next week's ordeal?" he asked, mouth curving.

"For surviving me," she said, and stole the last bite from his bowl while he watched, smiling like he'd never been anywhere but home.

They sat side by side on the front edge of the stage, feet dangling, half-turned toward each other. The gruifix at Isabella's throat caught a bit of leftover light whenever she breathed.

"Do you remember, the first night we met?" Papa said, voice low, "the first night after Terzo? When I walked out as... me. Not a Papa. The Cardinal." He huffed a tiny laugh. "I thought the robe would eat me. I thought the crowd would too."

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I counted to three and forgot the number after two." His mouth tilted. "Mountain hit the beat and I realized the room was louder than my fear. I did the wrist too early." He demonstrated—small, sheepish. "Swiss did a gasp—" He glanced at her covering his mouth, copying him. "Someone near the rail cried. Not sad. Just... happy to be there. I thought, okay. I do this. I am a Papa"

Isabella listened with her whole face, eyes soft. "You are a Papa," she said simply.

He nodded, eyes on his hands. "Terzo was... loved. The jokes, the hips, the glare. They really liked his glare. I could never pull it off. I tried. I felt like a little ghost in a big coat."

She let the quiet sit, kind and unhurried. Then: "And that's how Papa V feels with you," she said. "Like he has to be better. You left a mark, Papa. You changed the room. He walks into that echo every night."

He looked at her, surprised by the gentleness she'd handed his rival. The surprise softened into something else—understanding, and the way his shoulders eased when he forgave himself for being human.

"You make me kinder," he murmured. "Even to the people who take my tricks."

"Borrow," she corrected, smiling. "They borrow. You keep."

He laughed, quiet. "I keep."

He glanced down at her hand where it rested near his, then back to her mouth, then away as if the moment might spook.

"Isabella," he said, and the name was a careful thing. "May I—?"

She turned a fraction closer, the gruifix brushing the knit of his sleeve. "Yes, Papa."

He leaned—his lean, the receiving one they'd built together—slow. The first kiss landed nervously: warm, shy, a little clumsy at the edge because he was nervous and trying not to show it. She smiled into it, one hand finding his wrist the way it always did, thumb resting over the quick pulse there.

He pulled back half an inch, eyes searching. "Okay?"

"Good," she said, cheeks bright. "Again."

He laughed—relieved, boy-sly—and kissed her a second time, steadier. When they parted she stayed close, breath mingling.

"You taste like stracciatella," she teased.

"You taste like pistachio," he answered, delighted that it was true.

They sat there grinning, knees touching, as if the whole church had shrunk to a space just big enough for two. He eased his forehead to hers for a moment, a little benediction neither of them named.

"We can... go slow," he said, a confession more than a plan. She nodded with a smile.

Chapter Text

The Ministry was bones and hush at this hour. Isabella’s pool of lamplight cut a soft halo over the desk; everything beyond it was shadow and paperwork.

She’d been at it too long—permits, per diems, venues, more fog. A sparkly mic” Her pen slowed. Her head tipped, lashes lowered—

She drifted.

A draft lifted the corner of a page. The lamp hummed.

“Boo.”

She jerked so hard her chair squeaked. Papers fluttered. The letter opener nearly made a break for it.

A shape had unfolded from the dark just past her lamplight: old-world suit, skull-paint grin, posture of a man who’d leaned on every altar and none had minded. Papa Nihil looked exactly like a memory that had decided to stick around out of spite.

“Saints—!” She grabbed the desk with both hands, heart on a drum solo. “You can’t just—”

“—boo?” he rasped, delighted with himself. He wagged a knuckle. “I can. I did.”

Isabella pressed a hand to her chest, laughed despite the adrenaline. “You nearly killed me, old man. Cardi doesn't need to be scared of another ghost”

“Pah.” He leaned closer, eyes glittering coal-bright in the lamplight. “At his age I had seen many ghosts!.”

She exhaled “What are you doing skulking in my shadows, Nonno? Better not be raiding Cardi's stash”

“NO!" He gasped "Checking the plumbing,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the rafters, the corridors, the world. “Listening for leaks. And for fools.” He peered at the stacks, at her lists and tabs.

"Stop with the snacks Papa, you cant even eat them. I can't have Cardi accusing the ghouls of stealing chocolate anymore. I know its you. I've had Sodo crying too many times" she pointed at him.

"No snacks!" he huffed as he watched her stack paperwork.

"Another tour"

“They roll out soon. About two weeks?”

He sniffed at the word they, a noise full of centuries and opinions. “Mmm.”

“Before you ask,” she added, eyes narrowing, “yes—he’s eating. And yes—he’s sleeping. And no—he hasn’t adopted any new wheels.”

Nihil’s grin cut wider. “Brava. How is he...eh...holding up?”

“So far its been hit and miss. Missing Sister Interpreta, being 'Promoted'. He struggles but he'll grow” Pride warmed her voice; she didn’t hide it.

“Ah,” he said, pleased in a way that lived behind the bones. “Good. You are his metronome, you know.”

Isabella rolled her eyes to hide the pink at her ears. “I’m the secretary.”

“Same thing,” he croaked. Then, softer: “He will be sad this tour. He will pretend not to be. You will do your… ice-cream sorcery. And when the purple one flaps his arms, you will remember: everyone is a replacement for someone, until they are simply themselves.”

She sat back, the lamp turning his paint to smooth porcelain. “Are you here for pep talks or just to scare me out of ten years of life?”

“Both,” he said cheerfully. “Also to say—lock the doors when you sleep at your desk. Cardi think's you hide the chocolate in there”

“Of course he does” She smirked and set the letter opener squarely atop the fog rider. “Thank you for the… boo.”

“De nada.” He straightened, creaking like an old stage and loving it. At the edge of the lamplight he paused, cocked his head. “Tell the boy I’m watching.”

“That will not calm him,” she said dryly "He's already paranoid thinking you'll just pop up"

Nihil’s laugh was a long and low. “Then tell him I am proud. But do not tell him I said it. Don't boost his ego too much”

Isabella’s mouth softened. “I’ll… find a way.”

“Of course you will.” He faded back, the dark taking him as if it had been waiting. Just before he went, the voice drifted over once more, gleeful and fond.

“Boo.” He huffed happily wandering through the halls.

Isabella sat very still, then snorted, shook herself, and pulled the next file into the light. “All right, New masks for the ghouls..." She blinked "Again?" underneath was a drawing of the designs, V wanted. She leaned back flipping through them.

"Eh, I'll allow it. They're cool" she hummed and marked in bold 'DO NOT SHOW PAPA.'

The corridors were soft as moth wings at this hour. Isabella’s heels made polite little sound as she walked down the hall yawning. She was halfway to her door when she noticed Cardi’s light still on—thin gold under the jamb, the kind of glow that belonged to pens and worry.

She glanced at her own handle, then back. Two steps past, two steps returned. She lifted her hand and knocked, gentle.

“Papa?”

A rustle. The click of a pen setting itself down like it was tired. “Entra,” he called, voice low.

She eased the door open. The room smelled faintly of ink and the clean incense he favored. Cardi sat at his desk in shirtsleeves, cassock folded over the back of a chair, speech pages stacked like well-behaved snow. The lamp made a small island of warmth around him; everything outside it was a quiet sea.

“You’re still at it,” she said, stepping into the light.

“I was only… reading what I already wrote in case the words ran away.” He smiled, sheepish. “They did not. But they pretended.”

Isabella shut the door behind her with a soft click. “I was headed to bed,” she offered, “but your light,”—she waggled a finger at the sliver under his door—“tattled.”

“Traditore,” he muttered at the light, then looked back at her, relief showing more than he meant. “You are okay? It is late.”

“Had a late night guest,” she said dryly.

He blinked. “Oh?”

“Papa Nihil,” she explained, dropping into his guest chair. “Materialized at my desk and practiced haunting. Effective. I lost at least ten years of my life. If I die young, you can blame Papa Nihil.” she chuckled.

Cardi stared, then laughed, then didn’t quite. “He scared you?”

“Only a little.” She pinched two fingers apart. “I should have told him to send his notes by fax next time.”

“He does not know what a fax is,” Cardi said, delighted despite himself.

“I’ll teach him,” she said. “He told me to tell you he’s proud.” She paused, then added, because truth was a habit between them, “He also told me not to tell you he said it.”

Cardi’s eyes went bright and then careful. He looked down at the neat stack of pages beside his hand and smoothed the top one with his palm. “He is… watching?”

“Mm.” Isabella tipped her head. “So am I.”

This time he smiled without hedging. “Then I will try to do the speech without trembling the paper like a frightened pigeon.”

“You’ll do it like a man who owns the spotlight Papa” she said.

He gestured to the room’s quieter half—the small sofa, the folded throw, the cat-shaped paperweight she’d definitely planted there one afternoon to see if he’d notice. “You will sit? For a minute?”

“I will,” she said, and took the end of the sofa while he stayed at the desk. He didn’t. He hovered. She patted the cushion. “Papa. Come here.”

He came. He always did when she asked like that. The cushion dipped; their shoulders found a negotiation. Up close she could see ink on his ring finger and the faint crease at the corner of his mouth that only appeared when the day had been long.

“You checked on me,” he said after a moment, not quite a question.

“I do, I always do Papa” she said simply.

He nodded, eyes on his hands. Then, braver: “And you? Who checks on you?”

“You just did,” she said, and the answering look he gave her was so honest she had to look away first.

“He scared you,” he repeated, softer this time.

“Startled,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He reached—hesitant, asking—and set two fingers lightly on the grucifix where it crossed her collarbone, the smallest anchor. “I am here now,” he said, and it sounded like he meant in general.

“You are,” she agreed, and then because the next day would be loud, she let the quiet have this one. They sat with it, breathing the same small lamp-warm air.

After a minute he shifted, not away but closer, shoulder to shoulder like pew-sitters. “If I read the first part,” he asked, “will you hear it with the ears you use when I am… too hard on myself?”

“I brought those,” she said, amused. “Go on.”

He read—low, careful, the cadence that liked threes finding itself in the dim. When he reached Both are ours, he didn’t have to tap the word; she did it for him with a fingertip against the page, little approval.

“It’s good,” she told him. “It’s you.”

“Then I sleep?” He tried the idea on like a new jacket.

“You can sleep, Papa” she confirmed.

He folded the pages with reverence and set them on the desk as if they were a small animal that ought not be startled. When he turned back his face had softened into the version of him that wasn’t for crowds. The nervousness from earlier flickered and faded. He leaned.

“Thank you for knocking,” he said.

“Anytime,” she answered, rising. At the door she looked back. “Light off?”

He grimaced, then grinned. “Sì, mamma.”

“Don’t push it,” she said, smiling. She reached for the switch. The room went to moonlight, then to the small glow of the hallway spilling in around her. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, Isabella,” he said, and it landed smooth.

She closed the door most of the way, paused, and added through the gap, “If Nihil boos you, scream once so I can laugh and then save you.”

“I will try to be brave,” he replied solemnly.

“Braver than a pigeon,” she said, and let the door settle. She smiled in the hallway.

Isabella slipped into her room with the last of the paperwork hugged to her ribs, set the stack on the small table by the window, and toed off her heels. The little lamp turned the walls honey-soft. She'd barely been in two minutes.

A light knock tapped from the back wall—three small beats, almost shy.

She smiled without turning. “Yes, Papa?” she called, already unbuttoning her blouse and reaching for the soft robe draped over the chair.

There was a pause and then his voice came through the plaster, warm and a little muffled. “Only… checking—after the boo…” He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Changing,” she warned, amused. “But talk to me.”

“Ah! I will face the wall,” he said, as if he could do anything else. She could hear the embarrassed smile in it. “I wished to say good night. And also—if you need, I am here. The pigeon will be brave.”

She laughed softly. “I’m okay. You?”

A soft thump like his shoulder leaned to match hers on the other side. “Better than before you knocked earlier. I am… less noisy in my head.”

“Good.” She crossed to the wall and rested her palm flat against it, feeling the cool.

A knock at her door this time, gentle, followed by his voice. “May I bring—tea? Or is the changing still… changing?”

She padded over and cracked it open. He was in shirtsleeves, hair soft, carrying two mismatched mugs like offerings. He kept his eyes scrupulously on her face, which made her love him a little more.

"I knew giving you hot privileges would be a problem" she smiled “Come in,” she said, opening the door wider. “Robed and decent. You pass inspection.”

He stepped inside and handed her a mug that smelled like chamomile and honey. His glance flicked around her small room—the table, the stack of papers, the cat-shaped paperweight she’d smuggled there too. He didn’t cross the threshold of the carpet without asking; he never did.

“Thank you for… the wall,” he said, almost sheepish.

“Anytime,” she said.

They stood sipping the tea like queens, purely because she had no chairs for two in this small room.

He tilted his head to a book on her bed stand. “What is this?”

She glanced, winced. “A tragedy,” she said. “I’m trying to learn Italian. Failing spectacularly.”

His mouth did the pleased-cat curve. “Davvero?” He stepped closer to read the spine. “This book is very… how you say… serious. No one begins with the congiuntivo and survives.”

“I wanted to impress you,” she confessed, lifting the mug. “Instead I can conjugate the word ‘to be’ in five tenses and sound like a haunted librarian.”

He laughed, delighted and tender. “Impress me by letting me help.” He nodded at the bed’s edge. “May I?”

She perched; he sat beside her, careful, leaving a holy inch of space. The little lamp warmed the page he opened at random—dense columns, examples no human would ever say out loud.

“Okay,” he decided, closing the book and setting it on his knee. “New curriculum. We learn what you will actually use.” He tapped his chest. “Io sono. I am.” Then he tapped her wrist, feather-light. “Tu sei. You are.”

She repeated, mangling only two vowels. He beamed like she’d solved world hunger.

“Brava. Now things to say to me.” He thought, then wrote with his finger across the blanket between them, each word slow: “Sto qui. I am here.”

“Sto qui,” she echoed, softer.

“Bene. Piano piano. Slowly.” He winked. “It is also a request when I kiss you.”

She choked on a laugh, blushing. “Noted.”

“Mi fai bene.” He waited for her eyes. “You do me good.”

She tried it. “Mi fai bene.”

He looked briefly overcome, then rallied into teacher again. “Pronuncia: roll the R just a little, not like Sodo rolling the whole motorcycle.” He angled toward her. “Say my name with it. Buonanotte, Papa.”

“Buonanotte, Papa,” she said, and the vowel wrapped him like a blanket.

He swallowed. “Perfect.” He took the battered book, tore a sticky flag neatly in half, and with her pen wrote a tiny list in his careful hand, saying each aloud as he did:

Sto qui — I’m here

Sempre — always

Piano piano — slowly

Mi fido di te — I trust you

Buonanotte — good night

He stuck the note to her bookmark. “This is the first lesson. No grammar that wants to kill you.”

She traced a fingertip over the words. “Mi fido di te,” she read, then looked up. “I do.”

His breath caught. He set his tea on the nightstand and—asking with his eyes—touched two fingers to the chain of her gruifix, the old grounding. “Anch’io,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“Teacher,” she said, trying for lightness and getting only warmth, “how do I say, ‘You make this easier’?”

He thought, then smiled. “Con te è più facile. With you, it is easier.”

“Con te è più facile,” she repeated, and he closed his eyes because the sentence landed exactly where it should.

He stood, reluctantly, before the moment could overfill itself. “Tomorrow I bring labels,” he said, recovering his playfulness. He pointed around the room. “Lampada, porta, tazza, letto. You will hate me by lunch.”

“I’ll make you flash cards,” she countered. “You’ll cry.”

He bowed, mock-wounded. “Va bene. We suffer together.” At the door he paused. “One more, for emergencies.” He tapped his chest. “Vieni. Come.” He gestured to her heart. “Resto. I stay.”

She sat with that for a beat that felt like a vow. “Vieni. Resto,” she said back, and the grin that stole over his face was worth every verb chart in the world.

“Good night, student,” he murmured.

“Good night, Papa,” she answered. “And thank you… for not laughing at my haunted-librarian Italian.”

“I like your librarian,” he said, hand on the knob. “But I love your Isabella.” He gave the tiniest wrist—no audience, only choice—and slipped into the hall, leaving chamomile warmth, a list of small words, and the pleasant certainty that tomorrow would have room for more.

Chapter Text

Isabella came back from lunch with a coffee she didn't need and a smile she did—and stopped dead.

An envelope sat in the middle of her desk like a smug little swan. Thick paper. Purple wax. V's sigil pressed so deep it cast a shadow.

She looked up. Cardi's office light: off. Hallway: empty as a confession booth.

"Okay," she muttered, setting down the coffee. The gruifix tapped her sternum once when she reached for the envelope. She cracked the wax and slid out a card heavy enough to flatten a small sin.

PAPA V — ON TOUR MASQUERADE
Music. Masks. Miracles.
Tonight, 9pm. Formal. Masquerade.

Her eyes widened. Her brain did the mathematics of horror.

She hadn't planned this.

"Cazzo," she breathed, then louder, "porca miseria!"

She yanked open her drawer and found the list V had given her weeks ago, the one she'd annotated and then shelved because touring had shoved fifty louder problems in front of it.

Music (live + DJ)

Dress code: Masquerade

Food: opulent, no shellfish (allergy)

Alcohol: champagne tower, absinthe "for the look"

Staging: fog (always), uplights, mirrored floor??

Invitations: embossed, delivered "like secrets"

Her mouth went dry. Someone had sent the invitations. Not her. Which meant either V's team had gone rogue... or V had done that hybrid thing where he assumed she'd catch a falling chandelier while also pulling her chair out from under her.

She sank into her seat, invitation clutched like a diagnosis, and felt panic crawl up her ribs with determined little hands.

"Okay. Okay okay okay." She flipped to a clean page and started triage in her tiny, merciless handwriting.

Venue hold?

Sound? Swiss can wrangle.

Live set? Sodo/Phantom (masked quartet?), Mountain on brushes.

DJ? Call that kid from Stockholm who worships "Miasma."

Catering? Sister Lidia owes me.

Champagne tower? Safety rails. For reasons.

Masks? We have stock + seamstress.

Security? Double. It's V.

Fog? Of course.

Her phone was in her hand, Swiss roll by.

. "Swiss," she snapped. "How much of a party can you throw in six hours without setting God on fire?"

"On a scale of one to 'Nihil's birthday'?" Swiss purred. "I can do a seven."

"Make it an eight and a half. Bring the small PA to the east hall. You're 'curator of vibes.'"

"Finally my true title," he said, already moving "East hall. Small PA, tasteful playlist, live interludes. No lasers unless I say. It's a masquerade, not a discotheque for demons."

"One (1) tasteful laser," he bargained.

"Maybe," she allowed. "Find me a DJ who loves us and can keep both boys happy!"

Swiss saluted and vanished with a "yesss chef."

"Sodo! Phantom!" she called down the corridor.

They appeared in stereo; Phantom actually skidded.

"You're a masked cameo," she told them, thrusting a scribbled set card into Sodo's hand. "Two songs, charm not arson. Phantom, harmonies like secrets. Wear the horned masks, not the gas mask ones."

Phantom pantomimed halo.

"Mountain!" she barked.

He was already there with a table on one shoulder and a coil of cable like a tame anaconda. "Champagne tower," she said, tapping the plan.

He nodded once, the nod of a man who would fistfight gravity. "Ice, glassware, trays," he rumbled, ticking invisible boxes.

"Catering—Sister Lidia," Isabella said, dialing. "Lidia, I need sinful and safe in six hours. No shellfish. Label the absinthe 'for look only'."

"Sinful and safe is my love language," Lidia purred. "What's the aesthetic?"

"Masquerade."

"On my way."

Swiss reappeared with a tablet and a devilish plan. "Lighting zones?"

She sketched the hall from memory. "Gold uplights along the columns, a run of warm pin-spots for the tower, blue low fog—low, Swiss—no ankle-eating. DJ tucked left. Quartet corner here." She circled a space. "We build intimacy, not a rave."

"Small rave - noted," Swiss said, already texting three people and seducing the dimmer pack with his thumbs.

Sodo leaned over the plan. "Two songs? Make it three if they're good." He winked. "We'll be good."

"Fine. Three" Isabella said. "If you encore, I'm cutting power."

Phantom mimed zip-lips, then immediately pretended to unzip them and eat the key. She pointed at him. "You—help me with mask staging. Pretty, not precious."

Mountain re-entered pushing a rolling rack of glassware and a case of champagne like it weighed feelings. "Test pour?" he asked.

"In my nightmares," she said. "We'll dry run with water. I want the angles perfect."

The next ninety minutes became a choreography:

Swiss tuning the east hall until it sighed in the right key;

Sodo and Phantom testing a shy riff in masks that glittered like sins forgiven;

Mountain assembling a champagne tower so square you could measure your life on it;

Novices laying out masks on velvet like secrets waiting to be picked up.

Isabella was everywhere: signing delivery slips, threading ribbon through a too-large mask, rewording signage ("ABSINTHE — LOOK ONLY"), swapping an uplight gel with her bare fingers because there was no time to hunt gloves, threatening Swiss with no dessert when he tried to sneak in a second laser, then relenting because the bounce looked good on marble.

"Fog line?" Swiss asked, hovering with the remote like a kid at a red button.

"Twenty percent at doors," she said, stepping through the hall to feel it. "Thirty by the tower, ten near masks. I want ankles visible. If anyone trips, I'm haunting you."

"Haunt me please Sister," he said, adjusting.

"Food landing timeline?" she prompted into her headset.

"Thirty out—canapés staging. Twenty out—first trays," came Lidia's clipped perfection. "Label cards en route. You get your champagne saber if and only if the tower lives."

Isabella breathed for the first time in an hour. The hall was becoming itself: warm gold, a river of fog, masks like quiet promises. She checked her watch. 8:12.

"Run the tower," she told Mountain.

He poured water top-tier. It cascaded, obedient, filling levels like a hymn. She let herself smile. "Okay. We live."

"DJ check," Swiss reported. "Kid from Stockholm. Worships 'Miasma.' Will behave for pastry."

"I'll bribe him with two." She surveyed placement, snagged a candle off center by two inches, fixed it. "All right, people—mask table staffed, invites at door, security double. This is a masquerade, not a mosh pit."

"—this is a masquerade, not a mosh pit," Isabella declared, hands on hips.

Sodo raised a brow. "Light moshing?"

She looked at the polished marble, the fog line, the champagne tower doing trigonometry in the corner... then sighed, wicked and resigned. "Fine. Mosh pit approved"

Isabella ducked into wardrobe like a thief in a cathedral and came out armed: black-and-red formal robes folded over one arm, the matching miter balanced in her other hand like a crown she fully intended to slam onto a king.

She jogged the corridor, breath quick. Please be in your room, please— She rounded the corner and nearly ran into him instead: Papa, halfway down the wrong hallway, turning in a slow, puzzled circle like a pilgrim at a riddle.

"Come, Papa," she ordered, no time for velvet. She snagged his sleeve and steered. "You are going to put this on." The robes landed in his arms before he could blink. "You are going to do that gorgeous makeup of yours." She dropped the miter on top, precise. "And you are going to give me your best smile and your best behavior tonight."

He blinked, already walking because she'd made walking the easiest choice, robes piled to his chin, waddling after her like a chastened altar boy trying not to drop the incense.

"Question?" he ventured, hopeful.

"No questions till I return," she said, stern and breathless, pacing the outfit into his hands as they reached his door. She spun him toward it, tapped the knob like a starter pistol, and took off down the hall again, leaving him with an armful of ceremony and a deadline.

Isabella skidded back into wardrobe because—let's face it—she did not own "ball-gown-level" anything. Not that kind.

Racks whispered when she shouldered through them. Sequins. Velvet. A graveyard of hems. She scanned for Papa colors and found it: a gold-and-black dress tucked like a secret between two capes. Sleek column under a soft tulle skirt, black base with gold filigree that caught the light like votive flames. Very Papa.

"Mine," she told it, already yanking a zipper free.

Masks next. She dug through the nun section and shamelessly stole a Ghoulette half-mask—black lacquer, delicate cutouts—complete with the little hood that framed the face just so. Perfect. Sinful-but-church.

She sprinted back to her room, locked the door, and got to work.

Dress first: cool fabric, surprising weight, the way it hugged and then let go. She tightened the waist, smoothed the skirt. The gruifix went on last, bright against the black like punctuation.

Makeup in fast, sure motions. Dark black eyes, smoked to the edges; a clean wing to sharpen the look. Red lips—not shy. A quick sweep of powder. She did her hair quickly: half-up to anchor the hood, the rest loose and glossy over her shoulders.

She stepped back and checked. The mirror blinked back a woman who belonged in a gold-lit hall: sharp and soft, a little dangerous. The mask and hood transformed her—mystery without losing her.

She actually looked... very pretty.

"Okay," she told the reflection, amused despite the sprint. "Behave."

She let a small smile show.

She stepped into the corridor in gold and black, mask and nun-hood framing her face. The hall's light climbed her dress like fire up a cathedral column.

Papa was waiting in his formal blacks and red, miter tucked under his arm. He turned—and stopped.

Whatever he'd meant to say fell right off his tongue. His eyes widened, mismatched and bare of bravado. "Isabella..."

She touched the edge of her hood, suddenly shy. "Too much?"

He shook his head once, almost dazed. "Troppo bella."

Softer: "You are... beautiful."

She smiled behind the mask. "Good. You'll need someone gorgeous on your arm."

The moment held—and then the practical weight returned. She slid her hand to his sleeve. "Papa V is holding a going-on-tour masquerade tonight. Invitations are out. We have to attend."

The flinch this time wasn't small. His mouth tugged sideways, sulk cutting through the paint. "He gets a party," he muttered. "I never got one."

"I know," she said, gentling her voice. "It wasn't fair."

He stared at the floorboards like they'd argued with him. "I got duty. He gets...cake."

"You got a Church," she countered, thumb pressing once into his sleeve. "And me."

That stole a little of the sting. He huffed, still wounded. "I would have liked cake."

"We'll steal some," she promised, wicked and firm. "We'll show up, be the most dangerous people in the room, and come home with a plate."

He blinked at her again, the shock returning in a softer shape. "You are really... very—" He gave up, smiled helplessly. "Bellissima."

"Behave and I'll let you say it all night," she teased, settling his miter straight. "Ready?"

He offered his arm, still a touch sulky, a lot in love. "No," he said truthfully. Then, after a breath: "But with you... sì."

"Good," she said, taking his arm. "Let's go ruin a masquerade by being better than it."

Chapter Text

The music found them before the doors did—low gold, a ribbon of laughter, the soft roar of a hundred masks breathing the same air.

At the threshold Isabella squeezed Papa's arm. "Ready?"

He looked at her—at the gold-and-black, the hood, the eyes he kept forgetting were behind a mask—and managed a crooked smile. "With you? Sì."

They stepped in.

Fog kissed their ankles. Light climbed the columns. The champagne tower breathed like a tame beast in the corner. Heads turned, as heads do when beauty enters on someone's arm.

"Isabella!" The purple cut through the crowd like a tide. Papa V swept to them in a whirl of silk and applause, seized her hand, and spun her once—twice—effortless, delighted. "This is great! You've done so great. You listened!"

She laughed, because spinning demanded it; the gruifix flashed; her skirt flared like a small miracle.

Cardi's smile thinned a degree. He stood a half-step back, the still point he'd perfected suddenly a place to hold onto. The room loved her—as it should. V's hands were light, but they were V's; the praise was generous, but it was also his. A small heat bit the back of Cardi's throat.

He didn't move. He didn't interrupt. He watched—jealousy, just a bright ache that said I would have liked to be the one to make her laugh first.

Isabella landed out of the spin and found him immediately, as if the room had turned but her compass had not. V didn't let go of her hand; he held it at his chest like a prize.

"You must come with us," he said, laughing, flushed with his own party. "Permanently, Sorella. I need this every night—the jokes, the efficiency, the way you make even fog obey. Say yes. I'll steal a bus for you."

Isabella's laugh was warm and incredulous. "Flattering," she said, tipping her head. "But I have work."

"Work we can take on the road," V insisted, eyes bright. "Say yes, and I'll—"

"And I have Papa," she added, turning just enough to find Cardi across that half-step of necessary space. She gave him the smallest, sure smile—the kind that says chosen.

V followed her gaze. For a heartbeat his own mouth tilted, amused, almost fond in the way a rival cat respects the bigger shadow. "Ah. Così." He kissed the back of her gloved knuckles, theatrical to the bone, and let her hand go. "Then I will borrow you in my dreams."

"Invoice me," she teased, stepping back to Cardi's side.

The ache behind Cardi's ribs unknotted like a tightened string finally tuned.

"Enjoy your party, Papa" Isabella said, all professional sunshine again.

"Oh, I will," Papa V purred, already turning to charm the next circle. "And you—enjoy your... Papa."

When he moved on, Isabella slid her fingers down to Cardi's wrist, the quick, familiar anchor.

Papa threaded his fingers through hers and steered them through the masks to the bar, fog lapping at their ankles like tame weather.

"Two drinks," he told the bartender, already smiling at her over his shoulder.

"I don't drink," Isabella said, amused apology in her voice.

He leaned—present, playful. "As Papa, I decree one night off... from rules," he murmured, then softened it with a wink, "What do you say? A little mischief?"

Her mouth curved. "Mischief I can do."

He turned back. "Shots!"

The bartender grinned and got to work.

"Cin cin," he said, tapping his glass to her first shot.

She knocked back the the shot. "That's trouble."

"Brava. Again." He shot his back and watched her joy the way some men watch fireworks.

"One more round of shots and then the dance floor is ours."

She saluted with a tiny glass, grin sharp and sweet. "Lead the way, Papa."

The next track slid into something slow—strings like candle smoke, a drum brushed to a heartbeat.

Papa offered his arm and then, halfway to the floor, seemed to remember he only had the one body to be brave with. He swallowed, squared his shoulders, and led her into the soft center of the room where the fog lapped low and the light went warm.

They stood close. Gold-and-black to black-and-red. Her mask and hood framed the smile he could feel even when he couldn't see it; his miter caught the glow like a small moon.

"May I?" he asked, already defying his nerves by asking.

"You may," Isabella said, hands finding the line of his shoulders as if they'd been carved for her palms.

He set one hand at her waist—careful, reverent—and the other held her fingers like a secret. The first sway was tentative, the second was him remembering the walk she'd given him: slow, chosen, no rush to prove anything. Stillness first; then motion like a sentence he meant.

Up close, he was nervous—defiantly so, the way you are when you do a frightening thing on purpose. She felt it in the little catch of breath at each turn, the way his thumb hovered a beat before resting against her waist. The music made a room inside the room. They took it.

"Breathe," she murmured, so soft it didn't have to travel far.

He did. He leaned—not sultry, not sorry—receiving—and she met him there, the two of them moving in a small circle that felt like a vow whispered under a cathedral.

"Too close?" he asked, because asking was how he stayed brave.

"Not close enough," she teased, and slid a fraction nearer.

Masks drifted around them—laughing, glittering, pretending not to watch. Swiss clocked them from the DJ nook and let the tempo cradle rather than lead. Mountain monitored the champagne tower like a benevolent god. Sodo and Phantom glanced over, grins contained for once, and left the moment untouched.

Isabella tipped her head, letting him see the joy he'd put there. "You're doing fine," she said, like a benediction. "Better than fine."

His mouth softened. "I am... happy," he confessed, surprised to hear it out loud in a room that belonged to someone else. "With you I am... not a guest."

"You're never are just a guest Papa," she said.

They turned once more, slower still. His hand found its certainty at her waist; her fingers threaded between his. When the strings climbed, he did the smallest wrist—not to the room, only to her—and she laughed against his cheek, delighted in a way that steadied him more than any prayer.

The track slowed. He didn't rush the ending. He let the last notes finish being beautiful, then stilled, forehead almost touching hers beneath the shadow of her hood.

The strings snapped into something wicked and bright, a drum kick grinning underneath.

"Borrowing!" Sodo announced from behind, and before either of them could protest he'd whisked Isabella out of Papa's arms and into the spin of the faster track. She yelped, then laughed, catching Sodo's shoulder with one hand as he slung her into a twirl and back again, feet a blur, mask glittering.

"Too fast!" she accused, breathless.

"Just right," he shot back, chuckling as he dipped her a scandalous inch and rescued her just in time. Swiss obligingly bumped the tempo another notch, the show-off.

Isabella tried to keep up and mostly did—heels skittering, skirt flaring, laughter pouring out of her like bells. She bit her lip, missed a step, found it again, and dissolved into giggles that made Sodo's grin sharpen with triumph.

From the sideline, Papa watched—and smiled. Not the tight one. The good one. The one that says look at her, happy and means thank you to the world for arranging this exact frame. Jealousy didn't bite; it melted. He enjoyed the way she shone, the way the room noticed, the way she glanced over mid-spin to find him and flashed a quick, conspiratorial joy meant only for him before Sodo whisked her off again.

Mountain drifted up beside him like a friendly wall. "She's having fun," he rumbled.

"She is," Papa said, smile deepening. "That is... perfect." He smiled and let the music whirl her awhile longer.

The party had slid into that golden hour where time got loose around the edges. Fog low, lights warm, masks a little crooked.

At the bar, Papa and Isabella had colonized a corner like two teenagers hiding from curfew. A neat line of tiny glasses marched between them—ruby, citrus, something with a sprig of rosemary that kept poking her nose. They were giggling, shoulders bumping, the world reduced to this small bright island.

"Okay," Isabella said, solemn and wobbly, tapping the next shot against his. "Important question. Best pasta shape. Go."

"Orecchiette," he said without thinking. "Like little ears. They listen."

She barked a laugh, nearly snorting lime sparkle. "Of course they do. Mine is... bow ties." She tugged his miter ribbon. "Formal."

He pretended to consider this deeply. "Acceptable." Tap. Down. "My turn. If Sodo were a cocktail—"

"—trouble," she said. "Shaken. Rimmed in salt. Illegal."

"Swiss?"

"A spritz that flirts with the glass before it flirts with you."

"Phantom?"

"A soda you're sure is water until it isn't." She giggled at her own answer and covered her face with one hand. The gruifix winked in the light.

He grinned, helpless. "Mountain?"

"Cold beer. But like... holy." She blinked. "Is holy beer a thing?"

"Tonight," he decreed, "everything is a thing." Tap. Down.

They leaned conspiratorially over the tray, cheeks flushed—him from a civilized trickle of amaro, her from sugar, adrenaline, and the joy of doing something pointless with him. Swiss slid two waters their way on a stealth pass; they ignored them for exactly five seconds, then obeyed like scolded kids and sipped dutifully.

"Another," she demanded, pushing a tiny glass at him. "Truth or dare but only truth and the truths are dumb."

"Perfetto." He pointed at her. "Favorite... smell in this room."

She closed her eyes, swayed a little. "Ink on your fingers," she said, surprising herself. "And... sugar. And fog. And whatever soap Sister Lidia hoards."

He looked down at his hands, pleased and shy. "Your turn."

"Who's your favorite ghoul," she challenged, wicked.

He gasped. "Blasphemy."

"Say it," she sing-songed.

He leaned closer, whispering like a thief: "The one who makes you laugh first."

"That's cheating," she said, delighted. "I'll allow it." Tap. Down.

They dissolved into another fit of giggles over something that wasn't a joke—her hood slipping, his attempt to fix it too carefully, both of them shushing each other like children sneaking cookies.

"Okay, okay," she said, breathless. "When you were little, what did you want to be?"

He considered, then shrugged, the confession easy in the bubble they'd made. "A cat in a library."

She lit up. "Same! But with snacks." She thumped the bar, triumphant. "Soulmates."

He stared at her like the word might not be a joke. Then he softened it with play: "Your turn, sorellina. The tiniest secret you can say out loud."

She thought, swayed, grinned. "Sometimes I hide pastries for Swiss and pretend I didn't."

He put a hand to his heart. "Criminal."

"You?" she prompted.

He glanced around as if the masks were eavesdropping, then leaned so close his miter almost bumped her hood. "When you say 'good boy,' I forget my name."

She went very still, then laughed into her palm, pink and pleased. "That's not tiny."

"It feels tiny to say," he admitted. "Huge to feel."

She tipped another shot into his glass so they could share it and clinked. "To huge."

"To huge," he echoed, eyes warm.

They knocked it back and lost it to giggles again, the kind that made their shoulders shake and their knees bump under the bar. Phantom passed by, rang the trike bell once, and fled before she could issue a no dessert. Mountain drifted into their orbit with the indulgent patience of a chaperone who'd seen worse; he nudged the waters closer with two fingers. They obeyed.

The tray of tiny glasses was down to two when a purple shadow fell across the bar.

"Sister Isabella," Papa V purred, bowing just enough to bend the light. "A dance. As a thank-you for conjuring this miracle."

She blinked up at him, pleasantly tipsy, mouth already curving to demur.

He offered his hand with a smile built to melt refusals. "Come, come. One song. You've earned it."

She glanced at Papa. He was already schooling his face, but the sulk tugged anyway at the corner of his mouth—the put-upon dignity of a man who knows he can't complain without sounding small. Isabella touched his sleeve once—I'll be back—then slid her fingers into V's and let herself be led.

The floor opened for purple like a tide parting. The band tipped into a mid-tempo sway with teeth. V was a flirtatious dancer by design—close without crowding, hands that never forgot to ask before they guided, eyes that laughed and lingered. He spun her once, slow, then drew her in on the catch, cheek close enough to share perfume and mischief.

"You are dangerous in gold," he murmured, stepping them through a neat little turn. "Promise me you will ruin at least three hearts before midnight."

"Only if yours counts thrice," she shot back, laughing, more steady than a minute ago as her feet found the pattern.

At the bar, Papa watched. Jealousy nipped, but it didn't bite hard; it made him straighten his collar and take a very principled sip of water. It didn't stop the sulk entirely; it gentled it into something almost funny.

Sodo drifted by, bumping Papa's shoulder with a conspiratorial grin. "She's fine," he said without saying it.

"I know," Papa answered, also without saying it. He set his empty glass down and let himself breathe.

On the floor, V dipped her just enough; he brought her up at once, then twined their fingers and walked her through the next phrase, a glide and a quick pivot that made her laugh again.

"Keep the mask," he whispered, delighted. "Mystery suits you."

"Such a flirt. Careful, you'll be the one breaking hearts," she said sweetly, and he grinned like he'd been praised.

When the song turned the corner toward its end, Isabella found Papa over V's shoulder—standing tall, patient, smiling in spite of himself. She flashed him a small, certain look meant only for him, then let V spin her once more and finish the dance with a courteous bow.

"Grazie, Sorella," V said, kissing the back of her hand. "You make even gratitude feel like a performance."

"Maybe I should charge" she teased. Then she stepped off the floor, light-footed now, and went straight back to the bar where Papa waited, sulk nearly dissolved.

"Your turn to ask," she said, tapping his wrist with hers. "I'm not done dancing."

"May I?" he asked—already smiling like he knew the answer.

"You may," she said, and he led her to the open space as the music slipped into something velvet-slow.

This time he didn't hesitate. One hand settled at her waist—sure, warm—guiding without crowding. The other laced with her fingers and drew her in just enough to share breath. He'd found a new gear: not showy, not shy—chosen. The carriage they'd practiced lived in him now; stillness first, then motion like a sentence he meant.

He turned her through a lazy spiral, brought her back with a gentle tug that said I'm here, and let a grin tilt his mouth when she bumped his shoulder on purpose. Then a back step, a sweep, a half-dip he caught before she could think to worry, holding the moment an extra heartbeat because it was beautiful.

"You're dangerous" she teased, breath warm against his cheek.

"I am learning from the best," he murmured, and let his thumb trace one steady circle where her dress met her spine. "Stay with me?"

"Try and stop me."

He laughed—quiet, happy—and spun her out on fingertips, reeled her in with a soft count under his breath, Italian threading through the numbers like ribbon. When she returned, he shifted closer by a fraction; and he exhaled as if that tiny touch locked the world into place.

"You look like a miracle," he admitted, a little braver now. "Gold suits you."

"You look like my favorite kind of trouble," she shot back, cheeks pink under the mask.

He guided them through one last turn, then stilled, their foreheads nearly touching beneath the hood and miter. No audience. No hurry. Just the gentle weight of being exactly where they meant to be.

"Better?" she asked, meaning: after the spin, after the sulk, after the long week.

He nodded, eyes soft. "Much."

The song settled. He didn't let go immediately; neither did she. When they finally stepped apart, it was only far enough for him to bow, old-fashioned and sincere.

"Another?" he asked, offering his hand again, confidence sitting easy in his shoulders now.

She slid her palm into his, smiling like a secret. "Always."

They slipped out together when the music turned brassy and the masks got louder—through the service corridor, past stacked chairs and sleeping candles, fog thinning to nothing behind them.

In the quieter wing, Isabella let her hood fall back and exhaled like she was setting something down. Gold-and-black went dusk-soft in the hallway light.

"Thank you for tonight," she said, turning to him at the bend where their doors faced. "For the dances. For the mischief."

Papa smiled, the good one. "Grazie a te," he answered, gentle. "For—" he tipped his head, shyly "—choosing me"

She laughed under her breath, pleased. "Always."

They stood there in the hush. He reached and smoothed a stray wisp of hair back beneath her hood, slow as a blessing.

"You were beautiful," he said simply. "I will pretend to be brave about that."

"You were," she returned, tapping his chest lightly with two fingers, "very brave. And very good." The tease in her smile softened into something warmer. "Go to bed, Papa."

He nodded, then leaned in to kiss her cheek—soft, a little careful, a little sweet—and stepped back before the moment could startle. "Good night, Isabella."

"Good night," she echoed, hand briefly finding his wrist in their old anchoring touch. "Sleep. I'll check on you in the morning."

"I will be here," he promised, retreating to his door. He paused with the knob in hand. "Thank you... for letting me enjoy it."

"Anytime Papa," she said, grinning. "Now—off with you."

He slipped inside. She crossed to her room. Two doors clicked shut almost at the same time, and the corridor kept their secret: two people smiling at wood panels for a heartbeat longer than necessary before the night finally took them.

Chapter Text

Isabella eased the door shut behind her and let the night in. Gold-and-black became a careful heap over the chair; pins came out with soft metallic clicks. She slipped into a cotton nightgown—soft, weightless—and braided her hair quick and loose over one shoulder so it wouldn't tattle on her. Her head shot up.

"Cake" she whispered.

The corridor was the kind of quiet that has texture. Old floorboards, old stone, the distant, polite hum of the building at rest. She padded along in thin slippers, keeping to the runner's edge where the nap was thickest. The air still smelled faintly of party: sugar and candle smoke, a ghost of cologne, the memory of fog.

The kitchen lamps were off but the big window over the prep table let in a blade of moon. Isabella didn't risk the switch. She crossed by memory—left elbow finds the shelf, third tile from the end creaks (step over it), watch your hip on the rolling rack—and felt for the walk-in cooler handle. Inside: the holy hush of refrigeration and a choir of leftovers stacked in perfect, labeled trays.

"Forgive me, Sister Lidia," she whispered, opening the desserts case like a reliquary.

Treasure: neat rows of chocolate torte cut into precise squares with a gloss of ganache that reflected the moon; pale lemon sponge capped with lemon-curd rosettes and sparing candied peel; dense almond cake freckled with slivered nuts; a few shy strawberry tartlets hiding behind a hotel pan like truant students.

She chose two chocolate squares (one for him, one for her, but he could have both), two lemon, one almond, and a tartlet for mischief. She wrapped the plate with a linen napkin, tucked two forks and a tiny knife beneath, and—thinking ahead—grabbed a handful of paper serviettes and two small glass milk bottles with rubber stoppers because late-night cake deserves company.

Back through the corridors. The building had settled, but sound still traveled. She kept to the wall, balanced the plate one-handed to free the other for door handles. At the first turn she nearly stepped on a feather mask abandoned in defeat. She nudged it under a chair with her foot. "Sleep it off," she told it.

As she neared his hallway, the party's scent fell away and his returned, incense, the whisper of the soap he pretends not to care about. A sliver of light edged his door: the low lamp he leaves on when he means to rest but not quite surrender.

Isabella paused a few steps short, listening. No voices, no page-turns. The kind of silence she enjoyed Papa having. She breathed around a sudden flutter—ridiculous, after tonight—and steadied the plate.

At the door she used her knuckle, not the plate hand—three very soft knocks spaced like a secret.

"Papa?" she whispered to the wood, mouth close to the panel so the sound wouldn't wander. "It's me."

Silence.

She leaned closer, smile he couldn't yet see tipping her voice warm. "I brought... cake. For people who were very brave."

Isabella balanced the little plate on her palm and eased the handle, whisper-soft—just enough to slip in and leave the loot on his table.

"Papa? I'll just—"

She looked up and froze.

He was very much mid something, shirt rumpled, trousers at his ankles, posture startled and guilty in that way that meant she'd walked in on something private. The small lamp made the moment feel even smaller. His eyes went huge.

Isabella made a tiny, helpless squeak, spun so fast her braid nearly whipped her, and backed straight out into the hall, face on fire.

"Oh Papa—sorry! I'm sorry!" she hissed to the corridor, clutching the plate like a shield.

Inside: a flurry of fabric, the frantic hush of someone trying to gather dignity, a muttered string of Italian that sounded like he was scolding the air.

She inhaled twice, squared herself, then cracked the door back open with one hand over her eyes, fingers splayed just enough to miss the furniture. "I'm not looking! I'm putting this down! It's cake!" She felt her way in by memory, found the little table beside the sofa, set the plate and the two forks by touch, nearly bumped her hip on the armrest, and retreated again—still covering her eyes, mortified and half-laughing.

"Isabella—! Wait—" His voice followed, breathless with embarrassment and something gentler underneath.

She slipped into the hall and pulled the door mostly shut, resting her forehead against the wood. "Delivery complete. I saw nothing," she said to the door. "Except socks."

Then the small sounds of composure: a belt, a breath, a quieter room.

"Please don't go," he called, softer now. "I mean—you may, if you wish—but also... please don't."

She smiled despite the heat in her cheeks. "Are you decent?"

A tiny, tragic pause. "I am... more decent."

She bit her lip, stifled a laugh. "All right. I'll stand guard out here. Compose yourself. Then I'm coming back to say good night and to assign you your portion of cake—which is half."

From inside came a sheepish, grateful little laugh. "Sì. One moment. And—Isabella?"

A moment passed.

"Thank you," he said, earnest even through an inch of door. "For the cake. And for... not seeing."

"Anytime, Papa," she answered, still red, still smiling. "Hurry. It's getting cold."

He opened the door a careful inch, then wider. Lamp low, shirt righted, dignity mostly back on.

"I am—ehm—decent," Papa said, mortification softening into something sheepish. "Please... come."

She slipped in and nudged the door shut with her heel. The plate waited on the little table like a bribe.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "About before," he blurted, already wincing. "I am—mi dispiace—very sorry. I was... I am simply a man and sometimes I have—" he flailed delicately, "—bisogni. Needs. And tonight you were... you were—" He gave up on diction and put a hand to his heart. "Too beautiful. My head was full. I did not expect a visit from an angel with cake."

Isabella's face went warm so fast she had to look at the plate to cool it. "I, um... accept your apology." A beat; honesty pushed through, wry and pink. "And I'm... honored to have made your... lust list."

He made a small, strangled sound. "Please do not call it a list," he begged, half laughing, half dying. "It is simply one name."

"Oh" she blushed, eyes flicking up at last. The sight of him—still flustered, still earnest—untied the last knot of awkwardness. "It's all right, Papa. Truly. You didn't do anything wrong. You were just... being human. I should have knocked louder."

He breathed out, relief visible. "Thank you. I did not want you to think... I was disrespectful."

"You aren't," she said, and meant it.

He nodded, gratitude bright as the lamp. "I will be more careful."

"And I will announce cake louder next time," she promised, fighting a grin. "Now sit."

They took the sofa edge, knees nearly touching, and she unfurled the napkin like a treaty. He let her hand him a fork as if it were absolution.

She lifted the first piece of cake.

"To angels who break in with dessert," he said proudly, and let her feed him. He closed his eyes, honestly undone. "Madonna. That is good."

"Stolen cake," she reminded, tasting the lemon for herself. "Also... for clarity: you are allowed to want me. Or desire. Its perfectly healthy. Especially in this business. I've seen Terzo, you and V on stage. I get it"

He froze just long enough to show he'd listened, then nodded.

"Thank you for...not making this...a scene" he whispered.

She chuckled and fed him more cake.

They traded bites. Almond, then strawberry. The room settled into the new, gentler shape they'd made for it.

He glanced at her, braver. "May I say one more thing badly?"

"You're on a roll," she said.

He swallowed. "When you walked into the hallway... I forgot every English word except your name."

That did it; she hid her grin in the napkin, red and pleased. "Flattery."

"It is not flattery," he said, more certain now. "It is a opinion."

"I like you always. I also love your late night tea." she said cheekily.

His laugh came out relieved and a little wild. "I can do that." He stood to fetch two cups from his desk, making the tea and setting them down like offerings.

They finished the cake in friendly silence, forks clinking, shoulders brushing. The tea was sipped. When the plate was a crime scene of crumbs, she set her fork down and leaned back, content.

"Thank you for letting me in," she said.

"Thank you for not running away," he answered "and for being on my... list."

"Singular," she corrected, teasing. "Let's not give your librarian heart a panic attack."

He pressed a hand to his chest. "Grazie. Singular."

She rose, smoothing the napkin. At the door she paused. "Good night, Papa."

He stood too, nervousness transformed into something soft. "Good night, Isabella." He hesitated, asked with his eyes, and when she nodded he kissed her cheek—quick, sweet, grateful.

She closed his door quietly.

Isabella's fingers had just closed on her doorknob when Papa reached her—breath warm, eyes wrecked. He caged a palm beside her head, mouth a breath from hers.

She slid her hand up his chest, fisted his lapel, and dragged him in.

The kiss hit like a match to dry tinder—hard, hungry. He pressed her to the wall, his other hand sliding into her hair and gripping, tilting her face to take more. She opened for him; the kiss went deeper, language abandoned, a low sound breaking in his throat as she answered with one of her own.

He broke only long enough to gasp against her mouth, "Too much?"—already chasing her lower lip with a soft bite.

"More," she whispered, tugging him back by the nape.

He obeyed gladly, kissing her like a prayer said too fast—mouths slanting, teeth grazing, heat coiling where his thumb stroked the hinge of her jaw. Her hand found his wrist and held, grounding the rush; his fingers tightened in her hair and she arched into it, answering with a sharper kiss that stole his balance and his name.

They didn't stop until oxygen demanded it. Foreheads pressed, both laughing—breathless, stunned—he brushed one last, filthy-sweet kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"Tomorrow," he managed, voice rough.

"Tomorrow," she promised, stealing one more deep kiss for the road before she slipped inside, leaving him in the hall with wrecked hair, bitten lip, and the happiest problem in the world.

Chapter Text

The mirror was not her friend.

Isabella sat at her little vanity in a nightgown and cardigan, hair half-pinned, lip doing its best impression of a crime scene. Not dramatic—just that traitorous split at the corner, pink and obvious. It pulsed when she breathed. It pulsed when she thought about last night and had to press her knees together and laugh silently at herself.

"Fantastic," she told the mirror. "Harlot by Chanel."

She dabbed concealer. Sting. Hissed. Dabbed again, lighter. Tried clear balm. That helped—until the shine made it look like she'd kissed a chandelier. She blotted, dabbed a whisper of foundation, then tried a brick-red stain to disguise the edges. Better... until she smiled to test it. Crack. Tiny bead of betrayal.

She set her timer, iced it with a cold spoon from her tea mug, twenty seconds on, twenty off. The clock did gymnastics in the corner of her eye. Already late. She stared down the panic.

She practiced three expressions:

neutral (safe),

professional-fond

do not ask me

They all hurt.

The corner twinged. She muttered a prayer to Saint Composure and reached for her nun hood—tonight's mask had gone home, but the hood framed her face in a way that shadowed the mouth just enough to read as pious instead of I got kissed within an inch of my composure.

A knock, soft and guilty, at her door.

"Isabella?" Papa, voice low. "You are late, and I... brought coffee."

She shut her eyes, smiled despite the ache, and opened. He stood there in shirtsleeves with a tray—one coffee. His gaze caught her mouth. He winced, then glowed, then winced again.

"I am so—mi dispiace—" he blurted. "You are hurt. I did not mean— I am a criminal. I— may I—?"

"It's tiny," she said, laughing under her breath. "And worth it. Come in, assassino."

He blushed to the ears, set the tray down, and—asking with his eyes—touched two fingers under her chin to see. The gentleness undid her more than the kiss had.

"Cold first," he said, recovering into competence. He wrapped a cube in linen and held it where she guided. "No smiling at idiots."

"I don't smile at idiots," she said. "Only at you."

He made the small, helpless sound she'd come to like. "I will run interference. If Swiss asks, he bit his lip on a trumpet. If Sodo laughs, I banish him to the cellar. Phantom will try to ring the bell; I will steal it. Mountain will say nothing and that will be our favorite."

"Good plan," she said around the linen.

He smiled, softer. "You are beautiful. Even with... battle damage."

"Don't say 'battle damage'" she chuckled, dabbing the corner dry and tapping on one last whisper of matte.

"Better?" he asked.

She checked the mirror. "Manageable."

He hovered, wanting to fix the day and unable to. "I am sorry you are late."

"I forgive you for making me late," she said, wicked and fond, "and for the... report you wrote with your mouth."

His ears went pink again. "Tonight I bring soup. For soft eating."

"Tonight you bring you," she said, standing, gathering her notebook. "Soup optional."

He took the notebook out of her hands and exchanged it for coffee. "Walk with me? I will glare at anyone who looks at your lip."

"You'll have to glare at everyone," she said, amused, tucking her pen behind her ear. "I'm very look-at-able."

"Tragedy," he murmured, proud. He offered his arm. "Ready?"

She took it, mouth careful, eyes bright. "Ready."

They stepped into the corridor. She moved a fraction slower; he matched.

"Coffee" she decreed. "Then we pretend I didn't spend twenty minutes seducing a tube of lipstick."

They went to work—late, composed, and quietly ruined for anyone else.

Sodo sauntered past her desk with the subtlety of a fireworks display, whistling nothing, hands in pockets, eyes definitely not flicking to Isabella's mouth. He vanished around the corner at a jog.

She smirked, stamped a form, and kept working.

Thirty seconds later all four Ghouls assembled in a row like a very dramatic filing error: Swiss with his arms folded and a wounded-hero squint; Sodo pretending to clean under his nail with a pick; Phantom vibrating with barely contained questions; Mountain being a wall with feelings.

Isabella tilted her head. "Gentlemen."

Silence. Then Swiss cracked, clutching his chest like an opera widow. "Who hurt you?"

Sodo dropped into a boxer stance, flick-flick with the pick; Phantom mime-drew a tiny sword and saluted.

Isabella laughed, the sound popping the melodrama like a soap bubble. She shook her head, palms up. "No one. I bit my lip in my sleep."

Four masks processed this.

Swiss narrowed his eyes. "In your sleep... with enthusiasm?"

Sodo wheezed.

She leveled the classic office stare. "Do you all want no dessert for a week?"

Immediate repentance. Swiss straightened, hands behind back. Sodo pocketed the pick. Phantom folded his arms like a scolded crow. Mountain looked at the ceiling, innocent as a angel.

"Thank you," she said sweetly, turning back to her paperwork.

Phantom slid a wrapped lip balm onto the edge of her blotter without meeting her eyes. Sodo, set down a chocolate and muttered, "For morale."

Isabella's mouth quirked—carefully. "Accepted. Now go be useful. And if anyone asks, you all bit your lips in your sleep too."

Swiss bowed. "We suffer together."

Cardi stepped out of his office, clocked the lineup of Ghouls, then Isabella, then the lineup again.

"Am i," he stuttered, "missing the party?"

Swiss spread his hands. "We heard there was... an incident."

"Workplace wellness check," Sodo added, already edging backward.

Phantom mimed zipping his mouth;

Isabella tapped the balm and the mug of ice on her blotter. "All good. I bit my lip in my sleep. You can all stop auditioning for Law & Order: Ministry Unit."

Cardi's brow rose, amused. "Ah. The very dangerous sleep." He drifted to her desk and set two fingers lightly on the edge—near, not fussy. "Grazie, amici. Party's over. Go be menaces somewhere useful."

Swiss sketched a bow. "As the capo commands."

Four masks brightened and vanished down the hall.

Cardi lingered, softer now. "Pain?"

"Manageable." She tilted the cold pack. "Your coffee helped."

He gave her the tiniest conspiratorial nod and retreated a step, voice warm enough to be private. "Call if the sleep attacks again."

"It only bites," she said, lips careful, grin not. "I'll survive."

Dinner felt looser than usual—candles a touch lower, chatter a touch higher. Isabella took her usual spot at the quiet end; Papa slid into the chair beside her with that careful confidence he'd been practicing... and a glint.

"Lip status?" he murmured, eyes flicking to the corner of her mouth, concerned and a tiny bit proud.

"Stable," she said. "No laughing, no citrus, no Sodo."

"I will protect you from all three," he vowed solemnly, then ruined it with a grin. "Except laughing. I am very bad at stopping that."

He poured water for her first, then himself—courtly. Halfway through the soup course he leaned just a fraction closer. "You know, when you wear your hair like this, it is very..." He searched for the word, failed, and let his hand hover above her shoulder, fingers showing the shape of the braid. "Dangerous for concentration."

She dipped her spoon without looking at him. "Is this you flirting, Papa?"

"Sì." He tried to sound dignified and came out boy-sly. "Also I am testing if you smile."

She bit the inside of her cheek and held the line.

Across the table, Swiss clocked the knee and hid a smirk in his wine.

Phantom gave Isabella a thumbs-up.

Bread arrived. Papa tore a piece, placed it on her plate, and whispered, "For the patient," like it was a prescription. When she reached for butter, he covered her hand for half a beat—not a grab, a warm touch that came with a smile.

"You're bold tonight," she said, amused.

"Practice," he said. "Walk, lean... flirt." His eyes softened. "Also gratitude."

"For what?"

"For choosing me in a room full of masks." He shrugged one shoulder. "I am still a little... new to being chosen."

She let her knee answer his under the table. "Get used to it."

He breathed out a smile, cocked his head. "Permission to say something reckless?"

"Try me."

"I am thinking about dessert that is not cake," he said in a confidential hush, then went very innocent when she arched a brow. "Ice cream. Pure. Holy."

"Mm-hmm," she said, fighting a smile. "Behave."

He behaved for—generously—six minutes. Then, over the main course, he went in again, softer. "After dinner—walk?" A beat. "I may steal a kiss"

"Yes"

He lit up in that way he only did for her. "Then I will be very, very good until then."

"That will be the day" she teased.

He slid her water closer, unfolded her napkin just so, and let his fingers linger a second too long. "Attentive," he said. "And a little dangerous."

She pretended to consider. "Acceptable."

Swiss coughed something that wanted to be a laugh.

When the plates were cleared, Papa stood and—without fuss—offered his arm. She took it. On the way out, he dipped his head toward her mouth, a whisper above the candlelight:

The courtyard had taken a vow of quiet. Moonlight pooled in the fountain bowl and ran in thin sheets over the lip; ivy traced shadows on the cloister walls; the air smelled like damp stone and a little leftover incense from dinner.

Papa offered his arm without a word. Isabella slid her hand through, the gruifix cool where it rested against her collarbone. He matched her pace automatically—unhurried, listening. His thumb made slow, absent circles over her knuckles, the way he does when he’s full and calm.

“Better?” he asked after a lap beneath the arches.

“Here?” she said. “Yes. Here’s good.”

They walked.

They paused by the citrus tree that never remembered what season it was. The moon made a halo out of her hood; his miter threw a small, polite shadow. He turned toward her, shoulders settling into that receiving posture she’d taught him—present, open, not chasing the moment, letting it choose him.

“You are very beautiful in the dark,” he said, then winced and gentled it, shy. “In the light, also.”

She tipped her head, amused and warmed in the same breath. “You’re getting bold.”

“I have had an excellent teacher,” he said. “And the moon is… persuasive.”

They drifted to the fountain. He set his palm on the chill stone and she matched it, their fingers not touching but near enough that the space between felt thin. Water kept the time. The rest of the Ministry slept like a city after a parade.

He looked at her mouth—one corner whole, one corner staging a tiny rebellion—and lifted his hand. He didn’t touch yet. He asked with his eyes, the way he always did.

“May I steal one?” he whispered, voice gone low and warm with wanting. “A very small… theft.”

She angled her face toward the safe side and smiled with her eyes. “Just here,” she said, conspirator-soft. “Careful.”

He leaned in—slow enough that she could change her mind if she wanted to—and pressed his lips to the uninjured corner, a kiss like a promise. He breathed her in and exhaled into it, steadying himself with the lightest touch at the small of her back. She felt the smile against her skin, the way he held still after, as if the night were fragile and might crack if they moved too quickly.

“Again?” she asked, a little braver, voice turning the question into invitation.

“Piano piano,” he said, delighted and reverent, and kissed her again—still gentle, just more sure.

They stood like that for a while: breath shared, foreheads resting together, the sound of water stitching the moment closed. When they drifted apart, he didn’t let go of her hand. He threaded their fingers.

“Tell me a memory,” she said, because they had a habit now of trading them like sweets.

He thought. “Florence,” he said at last. “Before all of this. Before I was Papa. I stood on the bridge at night. The river carried all the lights in its hands and I thought—if I am very quiet, maybe something bigger than me will keep me.” He glanced down, then back. “This feels like that. You feel like that.”

She felt it land, simple and exact. “You keep me, too,” she answered. “Even when you think you don’t.”

He swallowed, a little undone, and lifted her hand to his mouth to kiss her knuckles—old-fashioned, sincere.

They took the long way round the cloister, hands still linked. He told her a tiny fear—“Sometimes I think if I stop moving they will forget me”—and she answered it with a tinier truth—

“Sometimes I think if I stop working I will”—and they both laughed.

At the far arch, he tugged gently and turned her back to the fountain one more time. “One last,” he asked, the kind of question that already had the answer. “For the road.”

“Last one,” she lied, and he kissed her again—soft pressure, breath, warmth. When he drew back he rested his forehead to hers, eyes closed.

“Thank you for walking with me,” he said.

“Thank you for stealing,” she teased, then softened. “You can steal from me any time.”

He laughed, quiet and pleased. “Deal.”

They finished the circuit in companionable silence. At the corridor where their doors split, he turned her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm, center and sure. “Good night, Isabella.”

“Good night, Papa,” she said.

He waited until her door clicked, then looked back at the moonlit courtyard—the fountain, the citrus, the path they’d worn slow—and touched his lips as if to confirm the night had happened. It had. Tomorrow would be soup and schedules and jokes he pretended not to like. Tonight was water and stone and a kiss that felt like keeping.

Chapter Text

It was late-late—the kind of late that made the Ministry sound hollow. Isabella’s lamp threw a small, stubborn circle across her desk; the rest of the office had the hush of a church after vigil. Her lip was down to a tender memory—almost healed, barely notable unless you knew where to look.

Purple arrived like a rumor becoming true.

“Sister Isabella,” Papa V said from the doorway, voice silked thin by the hour. “Forgive the intrusion. I come… humbly.” He tried on the word and almost wore it.

She leaned back, pen between fingers, smile professional-warm. “It must be important. You’re usually in bed by now, bothering your conscience.”

He laughed, appreciating the jab. “A favor. A tiny tweak.” He entered, closing the door with conspiratorial care. “I wish to shuffle the deck for the next leg.”

Her brows climbed. “Which cards?”

“Sodo, Phantom, Mountain with me,” he said, ticking them off on gloved fingers. “And… Swiss and Aether remain here.”

Isabella blinked, then brightened despite the hour. “Aether back in-house?” The fondness in her voice was instant. “It’s been ages.”

“Yes.” V’s smile sat neatly on his face, but the edges were too sharp for midnight. “He is… steady. Useful. And Swiss can… curate your vibes,” he added, borrowing her term with a sly glance.

She set her pen down. “Why the last-minute changes?”

He lifted a shoulder, let it fall, then gave up the ghost. “We are honest at this hour, yes? I prefer not to be… outshone on my own stage.” The admission cost him something; he paid and stood straighter. “Sodo is a solar flare. Phantom is a magnet. Mountain is… Mount—one anchors, two burn. It balances.” He spread his hands. “Swiss is too—too much… Swiss. And Aether, when he radiates, it is… inward. He does not steal light. He keeps it warm.”

Isabella’s mouth crooked, delight and wickedness equal. “So: keep the thunder, export the lightning, store the aurora in the pantry.” She tapped the blotter. “You do realize taking Sodo is the deadly choice, yes? The crowd eats him like candy and demands seconds.”

V groaned very softly, helpless and theatrical. “I know. The little devil is beloved. He sets things on fire with what—three notes?—and I am left to baptize the ashes.”

“Phantom too,” she said, amused. “He’s become a chaos darling. The mask helps. People project. It’s dangerous.”

“Yes. Which is why I keep him on a short leash.” A beat; he winced. “Metaphorically.”

“Please keep all leashes metaphorical,” she said dryly, then softened into the practical. “All right. I’ll draft the internal notice, swap travel manifests, update backline assignments, and warn catering that Sodo’s appetite is crossing borders. I’ll also… prep Swiss and Aether for a graceful pivot.”

V inclined his head, grateful and relieved. “You are a miracle in sensible shoes.”

“Tonight I am a miracle in slippers,” she confessed, nudging one toe out from under the desk. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

He hovered, then risked it. “You do not think… less of me? For the—ah—timidity.”

She tilted her head, kind even in mischief. “I think you’re doing the math any front does before a long run: what keeps the show yours without making it smaller. You chose a drummer who makes mountains move, a guitarist who can set the air on fire with a grin, and a phantom who turns mystery into momentum. You also chose to leave here two men who will hold this place steady.” She opened her hands. “That’s… not timid. That’s strategy.”

He inhaled that like medicine. “You are very good,” he said simply.

“I know,” she deadpanned, then winked to take out the sting. “I’ll tell Aether the good news myself. He’ll pretend not to smile and then go reorganize a closet for joy.”

V actually laughed. “Perfect.”

She flipped to a clean page. “Anything else while you have me awake and benevolent?”

He considered, then shook his head. “No. Only—grazie.” He touched two fingers to his chest, a tiny vow. “For making the impossible look like planning.”

She saluted with her pen. “Go sleep. I’ll have the paperwork and the people moved by morning.”

He started for the door, then hesitated, turning back with a mischievous glint. “And Isabella?”

“Mm?”

“If Sodo kills me with charisma, you will write a very flattering obituary.”

She grinned. “Two lines: He flapped, we clapped. Now go.”

He swept a half-bow.

“Sister Isabella,” V said, voice soft with the hour. “Before I vanish—might I steal you for a nightcap?”

She arched a brow. “Tempting.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “Tea, five stolen minutes where the church stops needing us.”

Her mouth curved. “Five minutes I can do.”

They took the little staff lounge at the end of the corridor. V, of course, found the cabinet with proper cups and the tin of chamomile; Isabella lit the small lamp that made the room look like a secret. The kettle purred. He did the ritual gracefully—pouring, steeping, sliding a cup toward her as if it were a compliment.

“To the night,” he said, lifting his own. “And the fools who try to outpace it.”

“To sleep eventually,” she countered, the steam fogging her glasses for one fugitive second.

They sat opposite at the tiny round table, elbows on wood, voices low. The quiet made his charm less performative, more human.

“I forget,” he admitted, “how much I like this part. When the show is over or not yet begun, and there is only… maintenance.”

“You call me maintenance?” she teased.

“I call you the reason the machine doesn’t shake itself to screws,” he said, smiling. “And—if I may—very beautiful when you are tired and stubborn and the light makes a halo out of that hood.”

She rolled her eyes, but it warmed her anyway. “You’re very kind at midnight.”

“At midnight,” he said lightly, “Always”

They talked shop just enough to sand the edges off the day: travel lists, a lighting cue he wanted softer, the rumor that Phantom had taught the coffee machine to hiss at Sodo on command. V was flirtatious the way he always was, but he didn’t crowd; he kept his elbows to himself and let the steam do the reaching.

When her cup was half-gone, he tilted his head. “You are happy,” he said, not quite asking.

“I am,” she said simply.

“With him,” he added, even gentler.

“Yes.” She didn’t blink.

V’s smile went rueful and real. “Then I will be good,” he said, surrendering it like a gentleman.

They were rinsing the cups when Isabella, sleep-soft and honest, tilted her head. “Why do you copy Papa?”

V froze with a dish towel in his hand like a flag of surrender, then bristled, elegant even in offense. “I do not,” he said, insulted silk. “The wings are not a theft. I am a vampire. Have you seen the full look?” He lifted his hands, exasperated and theatrical. “I have claws. He didn’t.”

Isabella tried—briefly—not to smile. Failed. “Claws,” she echoed, delighted. “Show me.”

V’s eyes sparked. “Come,” he said, seizing her fingers and towing her down the hall like a child who’d remembered where the good candy was hidden. He shouldered open the wardrobe door and flicked on a single lamp. Racks glimmered. Velvet sighed.

“There,” he murmured, reverent, and drew out the cape: black satin lined in bruised purple, with an articulated wing rigstitched into the seams—thin carbon struts that would flare with a tug and settle with a whisper. He tossed it across his shoulders; the collar framed his jaw like a cathedral arch.

“Claws,” Isabella said, settling into the seamstress’s chair like a queen. He obliged, pulling out a pair of gloves from a velvet pouch. Up close she saw them: custom-fitted, with tapering onyx caps over each fingertip—sleek, not clunky. He slid them on and flexed. The light skimmed across ten polished points.

“Full look,” V announced, going to the mirror. He set his feet, lifted his chin, and with a practiced flick of hidden ribbons unfurled the wings. Fabric hissed. Shadow bloomed. He turned, slow, letting the purple flash and disappear with each pivot. He extended one hand; the claws caught the light like promises.

“Okay,” Isabella conceded, laughing. “You do, in fact, look like a handsome bat.”

“Grazie.” He tried a step, then another—less flap, more glide—and watched her in the mirror, seeking the telltale spark that meant he’d sold it.

“Notes?” he prodded, already performing.

She pointed, professional even at midnight. “When you open, keep the elbows low—otherwise you look like a very expensive kite. Let the cape fall and then breathe, don’t gulp air at the same time you show it. And the claws? Use them sparingly. A little curve of the fingers—” she hooked hers in the air to show him “—is sexier.”

He obeyed, quick study that he was: unfurl, settle, breathe, and then just the ghost of a reach. It worked. Even he saw it.

“Better,” she said, pleased. “See? It’s not the wing. It’s the keeping of it.”

He bowed, wings folding along his back like a secret. “You are a menace,” he said fondly. “And correct.”

“Both can be true.” She stood, came closer, and tugged the collar a finger-width lower. “And this—show throat. You’re a vampire, not a turtle.”

He laughed and did as told. In the mirror he looked suddenly more dangerous and more human. He noticed; she noticed that he noticed.

“You don’t need to copy him,” she added, gentler now as she stepped back. “You just need to decide what you are and do that on purpose. This works. But glide more. Flap less.”

“Glide more,” he repeated, as if it were a blessing.

He folded the wings, peeled off the claws, and tucked everything back with ritual care. At the door he paused, the insult soothed, the vanity petted, the show sharpened.

“Thank you for the… night fitting,” he said. “And for the truth.”

“Nightcap, night fitting,” she counted on her fingers. “Next time: night rehearsal. I’ll bring the metronome.”

He pressed a hand to his heart and then to the wardrobe’s lamp, clicking them back into shadow. “Good night, Sorella. Try not to sharpen your own teeth just to be competitive.”

She smirked. “I’ll leave the fangs to you. Glide home.”

He did, cape draped over his arm, the echo of her laugh following him out into the quiet.

Chapter Text

Isabella had her feet tucked under her chair, a bowl of noodles steaming on her blotter, chopsticks poised, and a paperback romance propped open with a stapler. The duke on page 214 was just about to say something ruinous when her office door snapped open.

Papa filled the frame—storm-eyed, breath tight, anger like heat off a road.

She set the book down, chopsticks lifted in a gentle stop sign. "Lunch break," she said mildly. "State your grievance, then eat some of this before you combust."

He came in anyway, closed the door more carefully than he'd opened it, and planted his hands on the edge of her desk. "He changed the lineup," he said, barely keeping his voice level. "Now. He told the boys—my boys—before he told me. Sodo, Phantom, Mountain with him. Swiss and Aether left behind."

"So you heard," she said, unsurprised, pushing the noodles across. "Try. It's the kind with the good chilli oil."

"I do not want—" He caught the smell, faltered, picked up the chopsticks like a man accepting a sacrament. "—to be unreasonable," he amended, and took a bite. The chilli hit. He blinked. Breathed. Chewed. "I am angry," he said, clearer now. "I am also... jealous. And protective. Swiss made a face like it is fine. When Swiss makes that face, it is not fine."

She let him get two more mouthfuls into his system, then slid a napkin over. "You're allowed to be angry," she said. "You are not allowed to explode at me on an empty stomach."

"Exploding at you is illegal," he muttered, already calmer. His eyes flicked to the paperback. "What were you reading?"

"A duke who needs to learn about communication," she said, arch. "Topical."

He huffed despite himself. The worst of the storm bled off. He set the chopsticks down, hands open. "Why would he do it now?"

"Because he wants thunder without aurora," she said, dry. "He thinks Swiss radiates too brightly to share a stage and Aether folds inward in a way that keeps a room warm. He is not entirely wrong about how audiences behave." She lifted a brow. "He is entirely wrong about how to tell you."

Papa's jaw worked. "He should have told us. He should have told you."

"He told me last night," she said. "I said yes to logistics and no to cruelty. Aether coming home is good. Swiss will not be idle; I've already built him a curator-of-vibes remit here—events, recordings, tormenting the dimmer packs. Aether gets studio time and three projects he will pretend not to love."

Papa's shoulder eased a notch. "And the others?"

"They'll burn bright and call us from the road so we can make fun of their laundry," she said. "Phantom will send blurry photos of snacks. Sodo will miss you. Mountain will keep the thunder in a box." She tilted her head. "You can call them before soundcheck and be home base. It matters."

He stared at her, jealousy and hurt rearranging into something steadier. "I wanted to be the one to tell," he admitted, small and honest. "I do not like when he treats me as the... museum."

"You are not the museum," she said, soft but firm. "You're the still point. The thing the rooms come back to." She tapped his knuckles, grounding him. "Also, if it helps your pettiness, he asked me to nightcap and I made him show me the ridiculous claws. I told him to glide more and flap less. He obeyed."

A reluctant grin threatened his mouth. "You bullied a vampire."

"Professionally," she said. "Now—do you want me to handle the announcement to staff, or do you want to do it with me?"

"With you," he said at once, grateful. "So they see my face and your competence at the same time."

"Good. We'll do it at four." She nudged the bowl back. "Two more bites or I revoke your flirting privileges at dinner."

He ate, obedient for once. When he finished he sat back, contrition replacing anger in the set of his mouth. "I am sorry I threw open your door. You were on lunch."

"You're forgiven," she said, lips tilting. "You looked like a man about to duel a duke."

"I will duel no one," he said, even if he didn't quite mean it. He glanced at her almost-healed lip, then met her eyes. "Thank you for... making me less noisy."

"That's our deal," she said. "You bring heat; I bring noodles."

He reached across and turned her paperback so he could read the title, smiling. "Does the duke learn communication?"

"He does," she said, sliding the book back. "After he eats."

"Then I am saved," Papa murmured, and rose. He leaned—present, open, the quiet he'd earned—and pressed a quick, careful kiss to her temple, safely away from the healing corner. "See you at four."

"Four," she echoed, warmth tucked behind her voice like a ribbon. "Go steal Swiss before he installs a disco ball in the archive."

"He will try," Papa said, already halfway to the door, anger spent, purpose found. "I will glide."

At four o'clock, the east hall filled with the familiar shuffle of boots and chair-scrapes—crew, Sisters, techs, and four masked faces up front. Isabella stood at the small podium with a clipboard; Papa took his place beside her, hands easy at his sides, gaze steady.

She tapped the mic once. "Thank you for coming on short notice. We'll keep it tight." A glance to him; he nodded. "We have a tour lineup adjustment effective next leg."

Murmur. Swiss folded his arms; Phantom bounced; Sodo looked like he already knew and wanted to see the fireworks; Mountain went still as a chapel pillar.

Papa stepped forward. "I wanted you to hear it from me, but it seems...," he said quieter "A vampire" he said—voice low, measured. He coughed "For the next run, Sodo, Phantom, and Mountain will be on the road with Papa V. Swiss and Aether will remain here."

A ripple. Swiss's chin lifted. Aether—arrived quietly at the back—gave a small nod, eyes bright and contained.

Isabella took the next beat, crisp. "Context: V asked for thunder and spark onstage. We agreed. So—Swiss will lead studio sessions, special recordings, in-house events, and, quote, curate vibes." That got a respectful laugh. She turned a page. "Aether returns to us to anchor composition, arrangement, and archives—and to pretend he doesn't enjoy reorganizing the tape vault."

Aether almost smiled. Swiss finally did.

Papa again, eyes on the band. "This is not a demotion. It is a holiday. We need a bright road and a strong home. Both are ours." He let that sit. "Sodo. Phantom. Mountain. Make them loud and come back I none piece please."

Sodo knocked his pick on his mask in a salute. Phantom did a tiny, triumphant bow. Mountain just rumbled, "Yes, Capo."

Isabella: "Logistics—departures shift by 48 hours. Travel manifests updated by tonight. Backline split: duplicate rigs prepped; Mountain, your second snare lives here now. Catering—adjust headcounts. Security—same plan, fewer bodies, smarter routes. Questions after."

Swiss raised a hand, deliberately theatrical. "Do in-house events include... tasteful lasers?"

Isabella pointed. "One (1). And I want a mood board." Swiss clasped his chest like she'd proposed marriage.

From the back, Aether's voice—quiet, even. "Studio schedule?"

"On your desk in an hour," she said, and he nodded like a man given oxygen.

Papa closed it. "You will see my face here more while they are away," he said, softer now. "If you need... steadiness, ask. If you need noise, ask Swiss." Laughter; Swiss bowed.

A Sister cleared her throat. "Morale?"

Isabella smiled. "Morale is Thursday at six. Swiss is DJ. Sodo will send a postcard that smells like smoke. Phantom will FaceTime badly, you know where we end up looking at the floor or feet for half an hour trying to get him to turn the camera around. You will all be fine. You will be missed but we will be watching"

The tension cracked into relief. People rose; the hum turned practical. Sodo clapped Swiss's shoulder; Phantom signed miss you, menace; Mountain touched Aether's arm as he passed, a transfer of thunder.

As the room dispersed, Papa leaned toward Isabella just enough for her to hear it. "Thank you"

"You are welcome, Papa" she turned to look at Swiss "If you don't get an updated manifest by 20:00, yell at me. If you do, yell at Sodo he probably distracted me."

Sodo raised his hands like a 'WTF did I do?'

"Gladly," Swiss called, already plotting lights.

Isabella clicked her pen, eyes sweeping the hall to make sure the shift was landing. It had. The church would hum, the road would roar, and when the doors closed at night, both would still feel like home.

Dinner wasn't dinner; it was a loading dock with soup.

Cases rattled past the refectory doors like armored beetles. Crew shouted over cutlery. Someone's flight case clipped a chair and earned a Swiss glare; Phantom jogged through with a coil of cable like a prize snake; Sodo blew a kiss at the pastry tray and kept moving. Mountain appeared, lifted two amps that clearly required four mortals, and vanished again. Even the candles looked like they had somewhere to be.

At the quiet end of the table, Cardi stared at his bowl and stirred air.

Isabella watched him not-eat, the line between his brows saying more than he would. Every new burst of laughter from the hall tugged his mouth tighter. The tour lived like weather at the threshold, and he wasn't going with the storm.

A flight case banged. He flinched. "It is—" He stopped, tried for lightness, failed. "Noisy."

"Mm," she said. "And you hate missing the party."

"I hate missing the build," he corrected, soft and sharp at once. "The moment where the night has not happened yet and everyone is... full of it." He pushed the spoon away. "I feel like a painting on a wall while the house is being rearranged and I am....forgotten"

Isabella set her napkin down and leaned in, elbows on wood, voice small enough to be just theirs. "You're not a painting," she said. "You are Papa. Who would V copy without you?"

He made a helpless little sound and looked anywhere but at her—at the door, at the staff moving like a healthy heart, at V's itinerary lying face-down in a puddle of candlelight. "It looks fun," he admitted, ugly-honest. "And I am jealous. And I am worse because I know they will call and I will be happy for them and still... jealous."

"Both can be true," she said. "We can be kind and petty at the same time. It's called being a person."

That got a breath that almost became a laugh. He glanced at her mouth—the almost-healed corner—and then back to his hands. "What do I do with my... hands?" he asked, meaning everything. "I cannot pace. It is not dignified."

"Give them jobs." She ticked items off with her finger on the table. "One: bless their gear. Actually. A tiny circuit—strings, skins, switches—your hand, your words. Two: write the stupidest sendoff note you can and hide it in Sodo's tech bag so he finds it in Milan. Three: come with me in ten and we'll do a quick moon walk—two laps of the courtyard, you steal a kiss, you remember that you are more than the clergy"

His shoulders went down a notch. "And four?"

"Eat your soup," she said, pushing the bowl back to his side.

He obeyed, resigned and slowly soothed, spoon finally finding actual broth. Around them the noise kept, softened a little by distance and purpose. Swiss popped in, dropped a laminated manifest beside Isabella with a flourish, winked at Cardi, and vanished; Phantom followed, leaned his mask to Papa's head in a brief bump of affection, and sprinted away. Mountain paused long enough to squeeze Cardi's shoulder—ground, no words—and kept moving.

"They love you," Isabella said simply.

"I know," he said, almost steady. "I am trying to forgive the part of me that wants them to love me... more."

"Let them prove it when they're gone," she said. "Daily voice notes. Ugly photos. Swiss's terrible playlists. We'll judge them. We'll be mean and proud."

He snorted. "We will be very mean."

"Wildly." She stood and held out her hand. "Come on. Do the blessing before they zip the last case."

He looked at her palm, then took it, that familiar receiving settling in his shoulders like a coat he'd finally decided to wear. "Will you come?"

"I'll point," she said, smug. "And translate if you get emotional and forget English."

They wove through the bustle together. At each station he touched what mattered—Sodo's guitar neck ("For loud joy"), Phantom's pedalboard ("For mischief that behaves"), Mountain's snare ("For thunder that listens"), the spare mic ("For words that land"). The crew made space without making a fuss. People straightened. The room steadied around him the way it always did when he remembered he was allowed to hold it.

Back at the doorway, Isabella bumped his hip with hers. "Better?"

He looked at the bright mess with a face that didn't ache to be elsewhere quite as hard. "Better," he said, and meant it.

"Good," she said. "Finish dinner. Then we steal the moon."

The courtyard had traded its bustle for breathing. Cases were zipped, doors latched, the last echo of voices swallowed by stone. Moonlight poured over the fountain and laid a pale path along the cloister floor.

Isabella tucked her hand into Papa's elbow and led him out beneath the arches. The night took their heat and gave it back as calm.

"How are you Papa?" she asked.

"Better," he said, and even managed a smile. "Soup helped. Blessing helped more."

They walked the long side first—soft footfalls, citrus leaves holding their own weather above them. He didn't talk at the beginning; she didn't make him. His shoulder lowered another fraction with every step.

By the fountain he stopped and looked up through the square of sky. "I am happy for them," he said at last, voice low. "And I am still... not okay. It sits here." He tapped his ribs. "Like a coin I cannot swallow."

"It will get easier Papa" They did the short side. He told her a little story about Phantom kissing the coffee machine good-bye.

On the second lap, he slowed at the far arch, angled toward her, and let the receiving settle into his frame—present, open. He lifted his hand, fingertips hovering first. "May I?"

"You may," she said.

He kissed her under the moon. His palm found the small of her back; her hand found his wrist and held, thumb over the quick pulse.

He stayed close when they parted, breath ghosting her cheek. "Thank you for making me... less noisy," he murmured.

"That's our deal," she said. "You bring heat. I bring air."

They walked again, slower. He slipped into the rhythm like a hymn he remembered from childhood—two steps, an exhale, the soft scrape of leather on stone. By the citrus tree he told her, almost shy, "Sometimes when I do not go, I feel like the church will forget my shape."

She linked their fingers. "Then let's put your shape on everything that stays," she said. "Tomorrow we label the studio keys. We schedule Swiss's menace hour. Aether will write you music to write songs to"

He laughed—quiet, true—and squeezed her hand. "I like that..you know."

"You might write something papa V will want to steal," she said, smiling.

"Never! I will lock it away" He did a goofy evil laugh.

They took a final lap, not speaking, letting the water keep time. At the doorway back into the warm corridors, he paused and turned her gently, as if setting a book straight on a shelf. "One more?" he asked.

"Always," she said.

Another kiss—longer, still careful—until the ache in his ribs loosened and his shoulders remembered where to live. When he drew back he kissed her knuckles, old-fashioned as a vow.

"Come," she said, tugging him lightly toward the hall. "Sleep. In the morning we'll build the day you want."

He nodded, steady now. "I will try not to get lost on the way to my room."

"If you do, knock on the wall," she teased. "I'll fetch."

He smiled, the good one. They walked the last stretch together, the courtyard behind them keeping their footsteps, the night holding its calm like a promise they'd decided to keep.

Chapter Text

The Ministry was asleep enough to creak.

Isabella padded down the corridor in borrowed quiet, hair in a loose knot, cardigan pulled around her shoulders, intent on a glass of water and nothing else. She'd almost passed his door when she heard it—small, stifled sobs, the kind that try to be brave and fail.

Her hand found the handle before she decided what to say. "Papa?" she called softly. No answer. She eased the door open.

The office was mostly dark—only the desk lamp on its lowest notch, and the glow of a laptop screen casting blue on his cheekbones. Cardi sat forward in the chair, elbows on knees, hands laced over his mouth. On the screen: a phone-captured clip from last night's show. Purple wings. A roar. V incandescent.

Isabella's heart stung in that precise way a heart can.

She didn't announce herself, didn't flip on the light. She crossed the room and crouched in front of him, slow, bringing herself into the same shadow. "Hey," she said, barely above a whisper. "I was going for water and found a storm."

He startled, then let out a breath that shook. The moment he recognized her, the tension behind his eyes loosened into embarrassment. He tried to sit up straighter; it didn't hold.

"I'm—" he began, then stopped, throat tight. "It is stupid."

"It isn't," she said. "It's late. Things are louder at this hour." She reached for the laptop and, with a glance for permission, dimmed the screen to a kinder glow. "Tell me."

He swallowed. "It is beautiful," he said, honest to the bone. "The show. The crowd. The... wings, even." A broken laugh. "And it is like pressing a bruise." He shook his head, angry at himself. "I want to be a good man who is only happy. I am not only."

"You're a whole man who is both," Isabella murmured. "That's harder. That's better."

He closed his eyes. A tear escaped anyway; she caught it with her thumb, gentle as a blessing. "I thought I had made peace," he whispered. "And then the first cheer—" He tapped his sternum. "Coin I cannot swallow. It sits."

"Then we won't swallow it," she said. "We'll hold it." She slid one hand to his wrist, their old anchor. "Breathe with me."

They breathed—five counts in, five out, her thumb steady at his pulse. The sound from the laptop became a faraway thing, like waves heard through a wall.

After a minute he said, small, "I am ridiculous."

"You are grieving something that mattered," she said. "Of course you're crying in your office like a melodramatic saint. I would be worried if you weren't." A beat. "Also, you're not alone."

He looked at her then, really looked, and whatever apology he was about to make fell apart. "Stay?" he asked, boy-soft.

"Always." She stood long enough to fetch the glass of water she'd come for and a folded blanket from the sofa back. She set the water beside him, draped the blanket over his shoulders, then nudged him gently until he made space on the chair's edge. She sat on the arm, close, one arm around him, the other hand bracing the laptop.

"Do you want to keep watching?" she asked. "Or listen with your eyes closed? Or turn it off and let me tell you what it looked like without the part that hurts?"

He let out a breath that sounded like relief. "Tell me."

She turned the screen so it faced her and lowered the volume until the roar became a hush. "Okay," she said, eyes on the tiny, flickering V. "The wings were a flourish. The crowd loved the trick. But the moment they loved the most—really loved? Mountain did a fill that sounded like thunder rolling down marble. Sodo pointed at a kid in a cape and the kid held up a sign that said 'I came to be chosen'"

He breathed, the coin shifting a fraction.

The blue glow of the laptop cut off mid-roar as Isabella closed it with a quiet, final click. She took Papa's hand before he could apologize for anything and tugged. "Come."

He followed—blanket still around his shoulders like a cape, eyes red in the soft hall light—as she led him down the corridor, past sleeping offices and the chapel's cracked door, to the rehearsal room. She flicked on the lamp by the rack; cables and amps dozed in orderly coils.

Isabella moved like she belonged there. She slung open a case, lifted one of Sodo's guitars with both hands—gloss black, wicked little smile in its curves. "He won't know," she said over her shoulder, conspirator-light. "He has six more just like it."

She found a strap, settled the weight across her shoulder, checked the cable with a practiced twist. Papa just stood there, blanket sliding off, watching the way her fingers arranged themselves like they'd been taught by muscle instead of thought.

A flick of a power switch brought the amp to life: low hum, small promise. She reached up, plucked a soft harmonic; it bloomed, shimmered, died. She smiled, turned a knob a hair. Perfect.

She crossed to him and pressed a mic into his hand. "You going to join me?" she asked, head cocked, grin crooked.

He blinked, as if the room had turned inside out. "You... play?"

She only raised an eyebrow and stepped back to the mic stand. Left hand found the first shape on the fretboard; right hand loosened. She began with "Cirice." No drums, no keys—just guitar, and the lean, stalking riff that could stand naked and still feel like a spell. She played it clean: not Sodo's swagger, not Phantom's drift—hers. Each chord placed, each slide unhurried, the melody carrying the rest of the band in ghosts.

Papa stared, amazed in a way that took years off his face. Somewhere in the middle of the first verse's figure his mouth parted; by the time she pivoted to the chorus voicings, he'd forgotten to hold the blanket and it fell to the floor with a soft surrender.

"Come on," Isabella said, eyes flicking up, fingers still moving. "Your cue."

He lifted the mic like it might bite, found the key by instinct, and stepped in—no full voice, just a low hum on the line where words would live, shaping the vowels without risking the neighbors' sleep. It was enough. The room woke. The song became itself in miniature: her hands giving him the road, his voice laying the shadow over it.

He swallowed, thumb brushing the grille like a promise. She settled the strap on her shoulder, found the first shape on the fretboard, and let "Cirice" bloom—clean, deliberate, each chord placed with room to breathe. No stomp, no lights—just wood and air.

When she tipped her chin—their cue—he lifted the mic and sang it to her.

Not out to a crowd. To her. His voice came low at first, careful around the edges, then warmed as he felt the guitar under him: her pulse steady, her right hand giving him the road, her left hand turning the corners like she'd walked them a thousand times. He watched her fingers, then her eyes, then nowhere but her.

"I feel your presence amongst us...You cannot hide in the darkness" He smiled at her as he watched her focus on the strings as he continued "Can you hear the rumble? Can you hear the rumble that's calling?"

On the lift he let his chest open. She answered by leaning into the strum, widening the chords just enough to carry the weight. The room turned into a chapel for two—his vowels finding her, her timing catching him when he stretched a phrase because he needed one more heartbeat to say it.

"A candle casting a faint glow. You and I see eye to eye" He did an eye to eye motion to Isabella making her laugh as she played. She was getting more confident in her playing, her head banging slightly "Can you hear the thunder? How can you hear the thunder that's breaking?" He got close to her as she really got into it. Her foot tapping to the beat.

"Now there is nothing between us....From now our merge is eternal" He moved around like he owned the moment. Marching across the small stage like it was his world "Can't you see that you're lost? Can't you see that you're lost without me?"

At the bridge, she softened to a ghosted pattern—thumb and two fingers brushing the strings—and he left the words for a breath, humming the line with his eyes closed like a prayer he couldn't speak yet. She slid a tiny hammer-on beneath him to keep the floor solid; he smiled without opening his eyes because he felt it.

"I can feel the thunder that's breaking in your heart. I can see through the scars inside you"

She hit the solo at the end perfectly, Papa just thriving on her skills. Her fingers working magic over the strings as she tried her best to follow it how she heard it in her head.

"I can feel the thunder that's breaking in your heart. I can see through the scars inside you"

She dimmed out softly and slow, letting the guitar hum slightly.

He dropped the mic to his knee and just looked at her, undone in the good way.

When she walked the riff down into the bridge figure—hand sliding, tone warming—he actually laughed once, quiet and astonished. "You're—" He failed at diction and settled on truth. "—good."

She glanced up, pleased and a little shy. "Don't tell Sodo," she said.

Silence rushed in, sweet and stunned.

He lowered the mic, eyes bright. "How long have you—?"

"Since I was sixteen," she said, adjusting a tuning peg she didn't need to adjust. "Enough to be dangerous."

"Perché did you never tell me?" he asked, half scolding, half worshipping.

"You never asked," she teased, then softened. "And... I like being your audience of one. This was for the coin in your chest."

He swallowed, looked down like he might cry again, didn't. "It worked," he said, voice rough. "It moved."

"Good." She shifted her grip, checked his face. "One more? Something that lets you breathe big."

He nodded, eager now, boy-brave. "Spillways?" he ventured.

"Spillways it is." She counted herself in under her breath and laid down the progression—open-armed, roomy enough for him to step into and own. Her foot tapping to where the piano should be, timing herself in. This time he sang—quiet, contained, but sang—the shape of the melody without syllables, the rise and fall he knew better than he knew his own pulse.

"Through benediction, You tried to rid your mind of malediction. But through all this time. You try to peel it off, and it's such a ride"

On the chorus she punched the chords just a touch, smiling at the way his shoulders set, the way his hand shifted the mic like it had weight again. He turned on the spot in a spin.

"All your faith, all your rage. All your pain, it ain't over now. And I ain't talking about forgiveness. All your faith, all your rage. All your pain, it ain't over now. It's the cruel beast that you feed. It's your burning yearning need to bleed. Through the spillways"

She burst on with the guitar solo, the strings burning her fingers a little. She should have defiantly stolen a pick. Her fingers push through and nailed the solo.

"It's the cruel beast that you feed. It's your burning yearning need to bleed.....Through the spillways....Through the spillways of your soul"

When they finished, he leaned the mic against his chest and looked at her as if she was everything. "You hid this from me," he said, scandalized and delighted.

"I hoarded it," she corrected, taking the strap over her head and settling the guitar back into its nest. "For a night like this."

He crossed the distance and took her free hand, thumb sweeping over the callus at the base of her first finger as if it were a new relic. "Thank you," he murmured. "For... reminding me where the voice goes when the room is far away."

She squeezed his hand once, sure. "It goes here," she said, tapping the air between them. "And it stays."

He nodded, almost dazed. "One more," he asked, greedy in the best way. "Anything. I will be your choir."

She laughed, delighted. "Deal. But then bed." She plugged back in, found a softer patch, and spun out the first chords of "He Is," gentle as a benediction. He closed his eyes and followed, the rehearsal room becoming church because two people decided it would.

They played until the hum in him matched the hum in the amp and the ache behind his ribs remembered it could loosen. When they finally powered down, the silence felt like rest, not lack.

"Come on," she said, winding the cable, voice low and fond. "Choir boy. I'll walk you to bed."

He picked up the abandoned blanket, still looking at her like she'd changed a law of physics. "Tomorrow," he promised, soft and certain. "We do this again."

"Tomorrow," she agreed, and flicked off the lamp. The room went dark, but the music didn't feel gone. It felt kept.

Chapter Text

The Ministry finally remembered how to whisper.

Papa was tucked away in the studio with Swiss and Aether, doors shut, a red light glowing like a votive. Through the wall came the occasional thrum of a bass line being born, a soft clap, a murmur of "again." Home sounded like work, which was to say: safe.

Isabella had nothing left to chase. Manifests sent, rooms booked, catering thanked, emergencies pre-defused. She curled at her desk with a paperback propped in one hand and a mug cooling in the other, ankles crossed, gruifix warm against her skin.

The scene had turned... heated. Courtyard at midnight, a confession, a kiss that made punctuation unnecessary. She bit the inside of her lip, turned the page, forgot the world.

"Boo."

The book jumped out of her hands. So did her heart.

"Saints—!" She caught the paperback mid-air and pressed a palm to her chest. "Nonno, you are going to kill me one of these days."

Papa Nihil stood on the other side of her desk exactly like a memory that had decided to be rude. Skull paint luminous in the gray light, old suit immaculate, eyes glittering like coal politely on fire.

He examined the book with theatrical interest. "Educational reading?"

She slid the cover down a strategic inch. "Romance," she said primly. "For continuing education."

"Mm." He leaned on his cane that he did not need. "The boy in the studio prefers minor keys to education."

She exhaled the last of the fright, heartbeat stepping off the ledge. "He's with Swiss and Aether," she said. "They'll feed him chords until he remembers he's hungry."

Nihil's grin went fond behind the skull. "Good men. One shines too much, one shines inward, both useful. And you," he added, tapping her desk blotter with a knuckle, "what do you do when there is nothing to fix?"

"I read filthy dukes," she said. "And try not to think about fog budgets."

"Brava." He tilted his head. "You have made a home out of an intermission."

"I'm trying," she said, smiling despite herself. "Would you like tea that you won't drink?"

"I prefer haunting" he said cheerfully, then softened enough to be kind. "The boy cried at the screen. You walked him to the strings. Well done."

Heat pricked behind her eyes, ridiculous and pleased. "He sang," she said. "To me" She tapped the edge of the paperback. "The soprano in here would be insufferable with that information."

"Be insufferable quietly," Nihil advised. "Also—" He twirled two fingers in the air, indicating her posture. He eyed the book again, mischief returning. "What does your duke do next?"

"He loses his mind over lust and takes the princess for one night."

"Educational," Nihil pronounced, pleased. He straightened, the air around him going a degree cooler like a curtain about to fall. "Tell the boy: write the song from the ache," he paused "And you—keep the candle. The stage can be a sun. Homes need candles."

Isabella swallowed around the small, ridiculous lump. "I will."

"Good girl," he said, delighted to get away with it.

Isabella was still smoothing the sticky note onto her blotter when the room cooled a second time—like a curtain stirring with no breeze.

"Cara mia," purred a voice from the doorway, velvet and cigarette smoke. Sister Imperator stepped through the wood as if it were good manners to do so—skirt perfect, gloves immaculate, eyes bright as mischief. Not quite solid, not quite not. Ghost, but stylish.

Isabella stood automatically. "Sister—"

"Hush, sit," Sister said, delighted. "Let a dead woman enjoy a proper entrance." She gave the room a once-over, then smiled in a way that warmed instead of burned. "You are doing beautifully with our little Cardi. He is... better. Softer where he should be, steel where he must. You have hands that know the difference."

Heat climbed Isabella's neck despite herself. "Thank you."

From the corner, Papa Nihil rolled his eyes with theatrical affection. "She does not need your blessing to be competent, tesoro. She is competence with a desk."

"She also needs to hear she is seen," Sister shot back, lazy and lethal. Then she tilted her head at Isabella, tone conspiratorial. "He likes you, you know."

"I had my suspicions," Isabella said carefully, trying not to smile too hard at the two cheeky phantoms in her office.

Nihil drifted closer to Sister, cocking his head. "Are we playing matchmaker now, Imperatrice?"

"We are admiring good work," she purred. "And reminiscing." She flicked invisible dust from his lapel; he leaned in shamelessly to let her. "You remember how much work you were."

"I was perfect," he lied, delighted.

"You were chaos" she said dryly, smoothing his tie with unnecessary thoroughness. "And yet—charming."

He caught her gloved hand and kissed the air above her knuckles like a man who had learned manners only to weaponize them. "And you were thunder in stilettos."

"Still am," she murmured, eyes sparking. They hovered a breath closer than was polite for the living. Banter turned into orbit; old gravity reasserted itself.

Isabella cleared her throat and found a sudden, urgent need to organize paperclips. "Should I... make tea for the afterlife?"

Sister laughed, low and pleased. "No, bambina. Only keep doing what you do. Feed him when he forgets. Listen when he lies about being fine. Make him sing when the ache is loud."

"And lock your door when reading your educational literature," Nihil added, wicked.

"Already noted, but you'll still enter" Isabella said grinning.

Sister glanced with a velveted smirk. "Good girl."

"Stop stealing my lines," Nihil protested, amused. They turned back to each other without warning, the air between them alive with the kind of flirting that was mostly memory and entirely practice—his hand at her elbow; her palm flat on his chest, claiming old real estate.

Isabella stared very hard at her inbox. "Well. This has been... formative."

Sister relented first, softening, the tease giving way to tenderness. She looked at Isabella again, voice dropping. "Truly—we are proud. Of him, and of you." She touched two fingers to her own heart, then toward the studio's direction. "Tell him I said to write the truth even when it's ugly."

"And tell Swiss," Nihil added, agelessly exasperated, "no lasers back in my day-

"And with that" Sister chuckled

The temperature shifted—wrap-up time. Nihil sketched a courtly bow; Sister pivoted with a rustle that sounded like pages closing.

"Boo," Nihil said on reflex, because of course he did.

"Behave," Sister said, because of course she did.

They thinned at the edges, laughter trailing, and were gone.

Isabella sat very still for two heartbeats, then exhaled, locked her door, and slid back into her chair. She lifted the romance novel, eyed it suspiciously, and set it down again in favor of staring at nothing until her blush cooled.

From the studio, a chord rang—new and true. She smiled, finally, picked the book up, and let the quiet have her again.

The red "RECORDING" light glowed like a tiny stop sign. Isabella ignored it with the skill of someone who knows where the floor squeaks and where it doesn't.

She slipped down the hallway, cracked the heavy door just enough to slide into the control room, and eased it shut with two fingers. The room smelled like warm dust and old vinyl. Through the glass, the live room glowed lamplit: rugs layered like maps, a scatter of stands, a tangle of cables that meant music is happening.

At the board, Swiss sat in the pilot seat, one ankle over a knee, fingers resting on the transport. Aether stood behind him, arms folded, eyes on the meters, posture saying careful, careful. Neither turned. Good. The isolator right of the drums held Papa in half-shadow—headset on, lyric sheet folded once and then folded again in his hand.

Isabella ducked behind the outboard rack in the control room and found a little triangle of invisibility. From here she could see everyone and the console's meters, but to them she was just the coat rack and a rumor.

Swiss hit talkback. "Ready when you are, Capo."

Papa looked up, breathed once—she knew that breath—and nodded. Swiss dropped the slate: "Take six."

Aether counted them in—quiet, fingertip on the glass: one, two, three, four.

The guitar track flowed in first: a warm, patient progression. Papa didn't rush. He stepped into the verse like you step into a pool you know is cold: slow, deliberate, shoulders relaxing once the water chose him. The voice wasn't stadium. It was paper-and-lamplight: close, careful, true. Isabella felt her own hand relax around the doorframe.

On the second line he leaned just a hair off the beat—emotion getting ahead of meter. Aether's head tipped; Swiss lifted a hand and Papa found the pocket again, smiling at himself in the glass.

"Good," Swiss murmured into the talkback between lines. "Hold the end of 'keep'—don't overfeed it."

Papa did: the vowel became a thread; the consonant landed like a soft heel on a rug.

Chorus. He didn't go big. He went wide—mouth open, chest warm, letting the tone sit and bloom without push. Aether's shoulders dropped a centimeter—approval. Swiss rode the fader a whisper, and the mix opened like a window.

They rolled into a middle-eight that hadn't existed yesterday—Aether's handiwork. Papa glanced at the lyric, then away, trusting the shape. On the climb, his voice frayed at the edge where the ache lived. Isabella pressed her lips together and didn't help him from ten meters away. He didn't need help; he needed to mean it. He did.

They cut. Silence glowed.

Swiss pressed talkback. "That's the chest. Keep that. I want one more for safety—same shape, little more breath between the first two lines. You're courting the note too long."

Swiss rolled them back. Isabella watched Papa roll his shoulders and let receiving settle into his frame—present, open. Take seven came like a page finally lying flat. The quiver on the hard consonant turned into intention. On the last chorus he thinned the tone, dropped the volume a shade, and somehow made it feel bigger.

Isabella realized her eyes were wet and cursed quietly at herself. She wiped one cheek with the back of her hand, careful of the door latch.

They let the final note hang; Swiss caught the tail and punched stop with a pianist's precision. The red light died; the room breathed.

Swiss and Aether listened back on nearfields. Papa stayed in the booth, head down, hands flat on the lyric page, not reading it. Listening like everyone else was the radio.

On the word that had cost him last night in his office—the one that pressed the bruise—his mouth tilted. He didn't wince. He nodded. Isabella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making a noise.

Playback ended. Silence with fizz.

Swiss hit talkback, voice gentled without losing its edge. "There it is. We keep six for a line, seven for the rest. One more pass for doubles while it's warm?"

Aether toggled the studio mic. "And before we do, write the date on that page and fold it once only. We're keeping it."

Papa obeyed, grinning helplessly at the bossiness. "Sì, maestri."

Swiss snorted. "Please. She's the maestro," he said, jerking a thumb vaguely toward the door—Isabella ducked reflexively—"we're just the house band."

Aether's eyes flicked toward the control room glass—he hadn't seen her, but he felt the idea of her in the building. "She'll hear it first anyway."

Papa looked up at the glass, as if hearing the same ghost. Isabella froze. He didn't see her. He felt her. His mouth softened into the smile he only wore when he was in a room she'd just left or a song she'd just asked for.

Swiss rolled the click. "All right, choirboy. Double from the top."

They went again: a hair softer, a shade tighter, Papa laying a second voice along the first like tracing paper. On "home," he let his throat grain just enough to be human. Aether closed his eyes. Swiss didn't move.

Isabella stayed until they had it and the red light died for the night. She slipped back out the way she came, the quiet taking her like a secret, the song following her down the hall like a hand at her back.

Isabella was curled sideways on her bed, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, gruifix warm against her sternum, book balanced in one palm. The chapter smelled like rain and poor choices.

A soft knock. “Isabella?”

She looked up, smile already starting. “Come in, Papa.”

He eased the door a little, peeking first like a boy. Shirtsleeves, ink-smudge on one finger, studio-soft voice. “I have not seen much of my princess today,” he said, a little sheepish. “I came to say good night before I forget how.”

Her chest pinched in the nice way. “Well, hello Papa.”

He slipped inside and shut the door with care. “We made things,” he said, eyes bright. “Swiss made faces. Aether made rules. I sang.”

“I know,” she admitted, biting her lip. “I… may have listened. From the control room. Like a coat rack with opinions.”

His brows jumped, then smoothed into pleased. “You were there?” He looked absurdly happy. He glowed, shy and proud at once. “Grazie.” He caught himself, laughed. “Is this illegal? Eavesdropping?”

“Only if you didn’t want me,” she said.

“I always want you,” he blurted, then softened, laughing at himself. “In rooms where I am making noise.”

She held out a hand; he came to sit on the edge of the bed, careful of the blanket line, and let her lace their fingers. Ink on his ring finger darkened the whorl of her thumb.

“Play it for me tomorrow?” she asked. “Officially. Not as a coat rack.”

He nodded, eager. “First thing. Aether will pretend to be annoyed and will turn the speakers up.”

“And you’ll pretend not to look at me the whole time,” she teased.

“I will fail,” he promised, eyes warm. He glanced at the book. “Educational?”

“Tragically,” she said. “Kisses in the rain.”

He leaned, not sultry, not sorry—present—and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “Good night, reader.”

“Good night, singer,” she murmured, turning her face so his mouth brushed the safe corner of hers in a second, quick kiss. “I missed you too.”

He stood, then paused at the door and looked back, boy-sly. “Tomorrow—coffee, playback, your notes. And then… courtyard lap?”

“Deal,” she said.

He hesitated at the door, hand on the knob, then turned back—eyes soft, voice low.

“May I give you a proper good night?”

“Yes,” she said, already smiling.

He crossed the small room, one palm lifting to cradle her jaw, thumb carefully away from the almost-healed corner. He bent and kissed her—unhurried, warm, the kind that lands and then stays a heartbeat longer just to be sure. She leaned into it, fingers catching his sleeve.

He pulled back a breath, searched her face. “Okay?”

“Perfect,” she whispered. “Again.”

He obliged, another gentle press to the safe side of her mouth, then a quick, affectionate peck to her forehead for luck.

“Good night, Isabella,” he murmured.

“Good night, Papa,” she answered.

He gave her a smile, and slipped into the hall, leaving the door’s soft click and the taste of good night behind.

Chapter Text

Isabella built a little island of light on her desk—lamp low, mug warm, the office door clicked to “almost shut.” On the screen: a timeline with miles of tiny rectangles, each one a moment she could hold.

He’d asked for it simply, like a favor you ask the person who knows where all your ghosts live. A best-of. For me. Not for them. She’d nodded like it was a task and not a hand put in hers.

She started with the obvious—tour clips. The early ones where the coat was too big and the room looked bigger. She trimmed a crowd scream down to the second he remembered to receive it. She smiled through the first tear she pretended was about the brightness of the screen.

Festival footage—him in daylight (he always hated daylight), squinting and then laughing when Phantom missed a cue and turned it into joy. She pulled the laugh forward, cut the stumble.

Backstage b-roll hit harder. Someone had filmed him alone with a paper cup, humming the skeleton of a chorus that didn’t exist yet; she boosted the audio, caught the moment his mouth changed shape because the line landed. She wrote: “Keeping this.”

Photos next, a thousand thumbnails—sweat-slicked, saint-serious, idiot-grinning. She dragged her favorites into a folder named Ours without thinking: him tying Mountain’s spare ribbon around Swiss’s wrist; him letting a little kid in corpse paint shake his hand; him making a face at a cupcake he didn’t intend to eat but a sudden change of mind occurred.

Sodo teaching a novice the difference between swagger and posture; Mountain asleep sitting up with sticks still in hand.

Half an hour vanished. Her gruifix tapped her sternum when she leaned in to color-correct a grainy hotel-hall take where he sang into his phone and forgot he had a camera face. She cut the breath before the note so the note would feel like it arrived from nowhere, like grace.

Then the part she’d been both chasing and avoiding: the gap. The last show before he stepped offstage. The clip where he did his retirement speech and bowed too long. Tears dropped over her cheeks. She could feel his sadness. She found a photo she’d taken by accident: his office at night with the lamp still on, the blanket folded wrong. She let herself stop. Let the ache crest and break. Wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, once, like a professional who was not. Days where she had missed his company.

She ended the timeline with his first performance as Papa. Him coming out, bold and brave. How he spoke to the crowd. She chuckled through the tears.

She watched the rough cut through once without stopping, hands folded in her lap like a pew-sitter. By the time the last frame faded she was a little wrecked.

She exported a temp to a private folder, named it for_papa_first.mp4, and slid a sticky note onto his desk calendar where he’d see it in the morning:

Best-of
Bring coffee. Bring tissues.
—I.

Then she sat back in her chair, blinked sting away, and let herself feel. She picked up her book and smiled through blurry vision to read it.

The red light over the studio door finally went dark. Swiss stretched until his spine popped; Aether rolled his shoulders and checked the time on his phone.

“Two fifty-eight,” he murmured. “Saints.”

They pushed into the corridor on a tide of hush and stale coffee. Cardi led the way, head buzzing in that tender, empty way that comes after you’ve given the song what it asked for.

He paused at Isabella’s office.

Her lamp was still on—low, honey-soft. She was asleep at her desk, cheek pillowed on her forearm, the other hand draped over the trackpad. The laptop’s export bar sat at 100%, politely waiting. Her gruifix lay askew against her wrist, catching the light. A sticky note on the calendar read: Best-of (rough). Bring coffee. Bring tissues. —I.

A tiny, unpretending snore sawed the quiet.

Swiss clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes delighted. “Oh no. She’s adorable.”

Aether’s smile showed and disappeared like a comet. “Shhh” he said quietly like a mouse.

Cardi stood in the doorway and let his whole face soften. The coin in his chest—the one that sometimes wouldn’t swallow—melted like sugar in tea.

“Go,” Swiss whispered, gentling his showman’s voice. “Do your little prince thing.”

Cardi slipped in and crouched by the chair. “Isabella,” he murmured, not touching yet. “Amore.” Nothing. The snore did a valiant wobble and continued.

He tried again, thumb hovering near her temple. “Princess.”

She stirred, blinked at nothing, and failed to wake, face smushing cutely into her sleeve. The best-of froze on the screen showed him mid-laugh, eyes crinkled; she’d caught the exact second.

“Okay,” Swiss breathed, already moving. He plucked the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and shook it out with the reverence of a stagehand handling a drop curtain.

Aether stepped to the desk, saved the export to a safer folder, closed the lid, and slipped the charger free in one neat motion. He set a glass of water within reach for future-her like a promise. Then he turned the lamp down two clicks, leaving the room in cathedral dim.

Cardi slid an arm lightly behind Isabella’s shoulders. He gathered her carefully—one arm under knees, one around her back. She was warm and heavier than she looked and trusting in the way only sleep can be.

“Door,” he whispered. Swiss got it, bowing like a footman with a grin he couldn’t hide. Aether scooped up her notebook and the sticky note she’d left him, tucking both under his arm like contraband.

In the corridor, Isabella nuzzled against Cardi’s shoulder, lashes flickering. “Mmm—what time…”

“Too late,” he hushed, smiling into her hair. “We are going to bed.”

“I’m working,” she protested to his collarbone.

“You finished beautifully,” he said. “Tissues in the morning.”

Swiss, walking backward, mimed dabbing his eyes. He glanced at the two of them and gave up on pretending. “She snores like a kitten.”

“A sassy kitten” Aether said, deadpan. He reached ahead to open Cardi’s door.

Inside, Cardi lay her down on the bed as if she were made of glass and owed nobody a late-night bruise. He straightened the pillow, thumbed a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, and draped the blanket Swiss handed over. Her gruifix ticked once when he tucked it neatly against her skin.

She sighed, somewhere between awake and gone. “Good night, Papa,” she mumbled, not opening her eyes.

He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Good night, Isabella.”

Swiss set her book on the bedside table and, with the flourish of a magician finishing a trick, placed a wrapped chocolate next to it. “For morale,” he whispered, winking at Cardi.

Aether turned off the light. “I’ll queue coffee for eight,” he said quietly, already halfway to the hall.

Cardi lingered a breath longer, watching the even rise and fall of her chest, the way the last of the day let go in her face. Then he followed the others out, easing the door until it clicked.

In the corridor, Swiss slung an arm around each of them for a pace, a silent chorus line. “Home is good,” he said, finally.

“Home is good,” Aether agreed.

Cardi looked at the closed door and felt the truth settle exactly where the ache used to live. “Home is good,” he said, and meant it all the way to sleep.

She woke to unfamiliar curtains and the faint, sweet smell of his incense. Not her ceiling. His.

Isabella pushed up on one elbow, blanket sliding, and blinked at the clock on his nightstand. 07:58. Her mouth shaped a small yawn; her shoulders stretched until the last of sleep cracked away. The room was soft with winter morning—bluish light, quiet radiators, the hush after a long night.

The sofa opposite held a long shape in shirtsleeves and a thrown blanket: Cardi, folded into sleep like a gentleman who’d lost the argument with chivalry. She smiled without meaning to.

Tea first. She padded to his little tea station, careful with the latch on the cabinet he never quite fixed. Kettle filled, switch flicked; the element began its small, important roar. While it warmed, she glanced back at him. The blanket he’d dragged from somewhere didn’t cover his shoulders; the morning air nipped even indoors.

“Stubborn,” she murmured, crossing the room on quiet feet. She lifted the blanket and eased it higher, tucking it over his chest. Up close he looked younger—mouth soft, lashes ridiculous, ink still smudged at one finger where last night had ended and sleep had begun.

The kettle hummed louder. She ignored it for a second longer and bent, brushing an errant curl from his forehead with two fingers. She pressed a kiss there—light as breath, warm as thanks.

When she drew back, his eyes were open—clear, awake, watching her with that stunned, tender look that always undid her.

She startled, hand halfway to her mouth. “Saints— I thought you were asleep.”

A slow smile tilted his lips, sheepish and delighted. “I was,” he said, voice low from the sofa. “Then an angel stole my morning.” He tipped his head into the pillow, softer. “Don’t stop.”

Chapter Text

They ended up back on his bed, pillows hauled to the headboard, blanket pulled up to their waists. Isabella’s laptop sat warm across her thighs; Cardi tucked in at her side, shoulder to shoulder, one hand bracing the edge of the computer like it might fall.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Sì.” He looked like a boy about to open a present.

She hit play.

The edit unfolded in little miracles: the first tiny wrist, a laugh he’d forgotten he made, Mountain’s thunder fill that turned a crowd into one animal. Backstage bits—his paper cup hum, Swiss’s offensive faces, Phantom ringing the bell at the wrong time. The masquerade spin caught in a smear of gold. The studio take seven under Aether’s neat hands. Each cut landed, breathed, moved on.

Cardi watched in reverent silence, a palm flat over his chest like he was making sure the pictures hit the right place. When his face appeared in a hotel hallway, softer and unguarded, he huffed a laugh and pressed his nose to her temple. “You thief,” he murmured, fond through the ache. “You stole the seconds.”

“That’s the job,” she said, but her voice wobbled.

He felt it first—the shift in her breathing—then saw it: her eyes glossing, one tear threatening the edge with theatrical patience. He paused the video. “Ehi. Are you okay?”

She kept her eyes on the frozen frame—him mid-laugh—and swallowed. “I am. It’s just—” She exhaled. “When you left, before… I used to sit in your office at night. With your ridiculous blanket and your lamp. And I’d watch these clips until the room stopped echoing.” She laughed at herself, small and wet. “Sometimes the camera angle lined up just so and it felt like you were looking at me. Like the stage had a hole in it only I could see through.”

He didn’t speak. He slid an arm around her waist and brought her closer, the kind of closeness that steadies instead of traps. “It hurt,” she said simply, turning to him at last. “Missing you. It hurt in a stupid, constant way, like I had swallowed something sharp and it wouldn’t dissolve.”

He didn’t reach for the laptop. He reached for the little drawer in his nightstand, fished out his phone, and woke it with his thumb. “I… missed you too,” he said, almost shy. “More than I let my mouth admit.”

He scrolled like he knew exactly where he was going—past a hundred useless screenshots and Swiss’s memes—to a folder that made his mouth soften. He turned the screen toward her.

It was years ago. Her birthday in the refectory—crooked paper crown, cheeks flushed, a candle guttering in a half-melted cupcake. She was mid-laugh, head thrown back at what had clearly been a very bad joke. He stood beside her in the frame, turned a little toward her, eyes on her like the rest of the room didn’t exist. The look on his face wasn’t subtle. It was home.

Isabella’s breath caught. “You… kept this?” She touched the glass, thumb hovering over her younger self. “From so long ago?”

He nodded, eyes not leaving the image. “Swiss took it. I stole it.” A tiny, helpless grin. “Most nights on the road, after the show, I would put this,”—he tapped the photo—“on the screen and leave it by the bed. I would fall asleep with this light on my face and pretend it was… your lamp. Your laugh.” He swallowed. “Your eyes looking at me like I had done something right just by being there.”

She looked from the picture to him and back again, stunned in the soft way. “Papa,” she whispered, thumb trembling just a little as she zoomed in—her own eyes, open and ridiculous; his, a secret he hadn’t known how to keep. “You missed me.”

“I missed you,” he said simply. “I missed you when I was loud in front of ten thousand and when I was quiet in a hotel that did not know my name. I missed you in the mornings when the bus stopped moving and at night when the ceiling felt too close.” He smiled, embarrassed and happy at once. “The photo made it easier to sleep. I told myself I would show you when I was braver. I am… trying to be braver.”

She took the phone, held it like something holy, and then set it on the pillow between them so they both could see. Her eyes shone in the present the same way they did in the picture. “Thank you for keeping me,” she said. “Even when I didn’t know.”

He reached across the little rectangle of light and cupped her jaw, thumb careful at the healed corner of her mouth. “I know now you were in the next room,” he said, wry. “But back then—this felt like a door I could open and there you were. Laughing because my joke was terrible.”

“It was,” she said, laughing watery. “It probably still is.”

“Then we are consistent.” He leaned in and kissed her—soft, sure—then pressed his forehead to hers, the phone’s screen lighting them from below with their younger selves. “Tonight I will sleep with you here instead of the picture,” he murmured, smiling. “But I will keep it. For when we are greedy and the world is loud.”

“Keep it,” she said, threading their fingers over the pillow, over the photo. “And if you forget—if it gets loud—I’ll make you a new one. Birthday crown optional.”

He laughed, low and warm, and turned the phone off at last, tucking it back in the drawer like a relic returned to its reliquary. Then he drew her into his chest and exhaled the rest of the ache.

He lay there with her tucked under his arm, the room quiet except for the small sounds houses make when they’re being kind. His fingers traced idle circles at her shoulder—one, two, three—and then stopped. He took a breath that trembled a little, like a man at the edge of a high, beautiful thing.

“Isabella?” he said, soft.

She tipped her chin up, eyes warm. “Mm?”

He looked at her mouth, at her eyes, back to brave. “I am… out of practice at asking for what I want.” A shy smile. “What do the kids call it now… a—girlfriend?” He winced at his own uncertainty, then pushed through. “Will you be that? Mine? And I will be yours. Not only in corridors and songs, but in the… the boxes on forms and the way people say our names in the same breath.” He swallowed, still shaking a little. “I want to be the man who walks you to bed and steals the courtyard kisses and sends you stupid pictures. I want to be… your man.”

The world did that soft expanding thing it sometimes does when the right words find air. Isabella’s smile started small and went bright. She set her palm against his cheek, thumb warm along his jaw. “You’re already my man,” she said, voice steady, eyes shining. “But yes. Yes, Papa. I’ll be your girlfriend. You’ll be my boyfriend. We’ll be very modern and extremely old-fashioned at the same time.”

He laughed—relief and joy braided—eyes going a little wet. “Grazie, Dio. I thought my heart would jump out and run down the hall if you said no.”

“It wouldn’t dare,” she teased, then softened, tugging him closer by the collar.

“I call you my boyfriend at dinner and watch Sodo choke on his water.”

He grinned, wrecked with happiness. “Cruel woman. I adore you.”

He kissed her then—sweet first, then deeper, the kind of kiss that sounds like a promise written in breath. When they parted he rested his forehead to hers, smiling into the quiet as if it were something they’d built with their hands.

“My girlfriend,” he tried, testing the shape of it like a new chord.

“My boyfriend,” she echoed, matching his grin.

Dinner was busy but bright—boxes at the far end, plates clinking, a low hum of good fatigue. Isabella slid into her usual seat; Papa took the chair beside her like it had been reserved by gravity. Flirting started immediately—his knee finding hers under the table, her hand smoothing his napkin flat and “accidentally” keeping his fingers a second longer.

When the wine came, he reached first—steady hand on the bottle, eyes on her. “For my girlfriend,” he said lightly as he poured, like it was the most ordinary word in the world.

Two heads snapped up.

Swiss, midway to a joke, froze with his fork in the air. Aether actually blinked, which for him was a gasp.

Isabella’s mouth curled; she took the glass, met Papa’s eyes, and—just to be a menace—clinked his. “To my boyfriend,” she said, savoring the syllables.

Swiss slapped both hands to the table. “Finally! Civilization!”

Aether’s mouth tugged into the rarest smile. “About time.”

Papa went very pleased-cat and handled the aftermath like a pro—topping up water, buttering her roll, leaning close to murmur, “Was that… reckless enough?” She nudged his knee with her own.

“Perfect.”

Swiss recovered enough to preen. “So, Girlfriend, Boyfriend—about time something exciting happened”

Aether’s eyes softened toward Papa. “Good work today,” he said simply—meaning the track, meaning the choice, meaning this.

Papa inclined his head, then turned back to Isabella, mischief restored. “After dinner,” he said in a voice meant only for her, “courtyard lap. Proof photo for our files.”

“Two,” she said, sipping her wine, eyes bright. “One with the fountain, one with you looking at me like that.”

“Like this?” he asked, already doing it.

Swiss groaned happily.

She clinked Papa’s glass again—quiet, sure—and the table, the room, the whole humming building seemed to rearrange itself around the new word they’d brought to dinner and set carefully between the plates: ours.

The courtyard was silver and easy. They took their lap the way they always did now—hand in hand, water keeping time, the night smelling like damp stone and good choices. At the far arch, Papa slowed, then stopped, that brave breath he takes when he’s about to ask for something catching in his chest. “Isabella,” he said, voice low. “Will you… stay with me tonight?”

She looked up—no drama, just warmth. “Yes.”

“Bring your things,” he added, shy-cat earnest. “I want the room to look like you said yes.”

She smiled. “Five minutes.”

She jumped up with the excitement of a child and ran inside. Her dress flowing behind her as she traced the halls back to her room and did the small domestic heist: wash bag, nightgown, hair tie, the romance novel with a scandalized paperclip acting as a bookmark. When she came back to his door he was waiting there, already holding it open like a habit he wanted forever.

Inside, it went sweetly ordinary fast. She set her toiletries beside his—two mugs sharing a cupboard. He found her a drawer—“for dignified future chaos”—and she tucked the nightgown there because the gesture felt good. They brushed teeth at his little sink, bumping shoulders and laughing through toothpaste, a tiny echo of the bigger life they’d just agreed to.

He brewed chamomile without asking; she turned down the bed without asking. The lamp made the room honey-soft. She slipped into the bathroom, changed, reappeared in cotton and calm. He went very still seeing her, the good kind, and then remembered to breathe.

She climbed onto the mattress and folding her legs under. She patted the space beside her. “Come here, boyfriend.”

He did, careful and certain. They settled under the blanket, her book on the nightstand, his phone face down like it knew better. He wrapped an arm around her waist, not to hold—just to be there. She tucked her face to his shoulder and exhaled the rest of the day.

“Proof photo?” he murmured into her hair, reaching for his phone, making it a joke.

“Tomorrow,” she said, smiling. “Tonight is just for us.”

He turned the phone off without argument and kissed her—soft, grateful, the good-night kind that lands and stays.

“Thank you for staying,” he whispered.

“Thank you for asking me to stay” she answered, thumb drawing a small circle on his wrist. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, my girlfriend,” he said, testing the word again like a favorite chord.

Chapter Text

Morning came in soft and slow. Papa was still asleep beside her, one arm flung over his head, hair a rumpled halo, snoring in small, dignified puffs. Isabella eased onto an elbow, reached for her book, and cracked it open to the scandalized paperclip.

She read quietly. A page. Another. The scene… escalated. Heat bloomed in her cheeks; she bit her lip, eyes skimming faster, the gruifix cool against suddenly warm skin. She tucked the blanket higher and kept going, absolutely not noticing when the snoring stopped.

A long beat of silence.

Then, right by her ear, a very awake voice whispered, aghast and delighted, “Madonna santa, they are doing that in a library?”

She yelped—book snapping shut so fast the paperclip leapt into the sheets. “Papa!—you were supposed to be asleep.”

He propped himself on an elbow, eyes wide, absolutely glowing with scandalized amusement. “I woke to a warm breeze and it was your face. What is this educational material?”

She pressed the book to her chest and tried not to laugh. Failed. “It’s literature,” she said primly, still red. “And very character-building.”

“For who?” he demanded in a stage whisper. “For the shelving?” He reached, and she held the book away like a contraband pastry.

“Nope,” she said, grinning. “Private curriculum.”

He covered his eyes with one hand, peeking between fingers. “I am a simple choirboy. You will end me before coffee.” Then, softer, teasing edged with fondness: “You were biting your lip.”

She made a wounded noise. “Snitches get no kisses.”

He gasped, clutching his heart. “Cruel teacher.”

They laughed into each other’s shoulders until the embarrassment melted and only the warmth stayed. He lowered his hand, eyes still bright with mock shock. “I approve of your smut.”

“Romance,” she corrected.

“Romance with… footnotes,” he compromised. He nudged her with his nose, boy-sly. “Read me a non-illegal paragraph? The weather, perhaps. Or a sentence where fully clothed people make eye contact.”

She rolled her eyes, flipped back a page, and found a safely tame line. She read it aloud; he sighed theatrically. “Bellissimo. No furniture was harmed.”

She tapped his shoulder with the spine. “Coffee, choirboy. Then we’ll have a book club.” she said, slipping out of bed.

He caught her hand, brought her back for a quick, warm kiss—the good-morning kind. “You are dangerous,” he murmured, smiling.

“Likewise,” she returned, eyes dancing.

He groaned happily, flopped back with one arm over his face, and laughed to himself as she padded to the little tea station—book tucked firmly under her arm, cheeks still pink, morning already better than it had any right to be.

Breakfast lived in the little sunlit nook off his room—two mugs, buttered toast, jam that looked like rubies. Isabella slid her book across the table with a conspiratorial smile. “Since you were so scholarly, Professor… sample the curriculum.”

Papa cleared his throat, performed an extremely serious eyebrow, and began to read the marked page. Two lines in, his eyes widened; four lines and he choked on a laugh; by the end of the paragraph he set the book down very carefully, like it might combust.

“Dio mio,” he breathed, half shocked, half impressed. “They are very… thorough. And—ehm—rough.” He glanced up, cheeks pink but playful. “Do women… like this?”

She tipped her head side to side, humming, buying herself a second. “Sometimes,” she said “I… wouldn’t know.”

He blinked, thrown off-script. “You—don’t?”

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, suddenly very interested in the jam. “I haven’t… actually had sex,” she admitted, voice small but steady. “Not for lack of offers,” she tried to joke, “just… timing. People. Me. It never felt right”

Silence, gentle as a hand on a tabletop.

He sat up a little straighter, the shock on his face turning instantly into something tender and careful. “Isabella,” he said, soft, as if the name needed better lighting. “Thank you for telling me.”

She risked a look. “You’re not—laughing?”

“Laughing?” He shook his head, almost offended on her behalf. “No. I am—honored you told me. And suddenly even more determined to be the most careful man who ever lived.” A hand lifted and hovered, asking; she slid her fingers into his. He squeezed, warm. “We will go exactly as slow as you want.”

Her shoulders loosened; the blush remained, but it looked less like embarrassment and more like weather. “I didn’t tell you so you’d tiptoe,” she said, smiling. “I told you so you’d… know. So you can ask me things and I can say yes or no in full sentences.”

“Then I will ask beautifully,” he promised, relief and joy braided. “And if I am ever stupid, you will say ‘stop’ and I will stop and bring tea.”

She laughed, the knot in her chest untying. “Deal.”

He nudged the book with one finger, grin returning. “For the record, the professor approves of the chapter. The furniture, less so. I deserved better than what it witnessed”

“Noted,” she said, then tilted her head, playful again. “And you? Shocked in a bad way?”

“In a me being a very lucky man way,” he said honestly. “I get to be your first at many things. Or your second, or your tenth. All of them ours.”

Her eyes softened. “My boyfriend is very good at breakfast speeches.”

He preened, then leaned over the little table to kiss her—gentle, proud, a little giddy. “My girlfriend is very brave.”

“Hungry, too,” she said, stealing his toast. “And curious.”

“Curiosity we can schedule,” he teased. “After coffee, we will study chapters with eye contact and full clothing. Later—someday—when you say ‘yes,’ we will graduate.”

She clinked her mug to his. “Professor, I like your syllabus.”

“Excellent,” he said, eyes bright.

They laughed, ate, and let the morning settle around the new truth like it had been there all along—no rush, no pressure, just two people at a table, choosing to be brave and kind at exactly the same time.

The day dragged. Paperwork up to her eyes of silly things that could wait. Swiss materialised at the edge of Isabella’s desk like a well-tailored omen, two fingers pinching a cream envelope as if it might take flight.

“Special delivery,” he sang, eyes already glittering.

She looked up from her spreadsheet purgatory. The wax seal winked—deep red, impressed with C and a tiny flourish she knew like a signature. Her stomach did a pleasing somersault.

“For me?” she asked, pretending not to know.

“For you,” Swiss confirmed, placing it on her blotter with a bow usually reserved for royalty and pastry.

Isabella broke the seal with her nail and unfolded thick card stock that smelled faintly of incense and expensive stationery.

Sorella Isabella,
This evening, please dress for a night of elegance.
A car at seven. A table at eight.
— C.

There was a pressed sprig of rosemary tucked inside—herb of remembrance, a private joke from the kitchen raids. She had to bite her lip not to grin like a fool.

She lifted her eyes to Swiss; he was already beaming.

“Oh no,” she whispered, delighted and panicking in equal measure. “What am I going to wear?”

Swiss took a dramatic step backward, palms up. “I will not be named in the historical record. Wardrobe is that way. I’ll guard the desk and invent plausible lies.”

“Bless you,” she said, and fled.

Wardrobe breathed velvet and talc. She hit the switch and rows of garments glimmered like obedient storms. Her fingers trailed along sequins, silk, and the occasional feather until her hand stopped on a hanger and her heart stopped with it.

A little black dress. Simple and deliberate. Bias-cut silk that would skim rather than cling, lace sleeves to the wrist, a hem that kissed the knee. Elegant without apology. Exactly what the card had asked for.

“Hello,” she told it, already sliding it from the rack.

She undressed quickly, shivering as the cool silk settled into place, then stepped to the long mirror. The skirt fell just right; the lace sleeves framed the gruifix at her throat. She turned left, right. It was her—but intentional, like a sentence said on purpose.

Shoes next: black heels with a sensible height masquerading as wicked; they made her calves look like they’d been sculpted by a flattering god. On a shelf she found a sheer shawl with a whisper of shimmer, the kind that caught light and then pretended innocence. She added small pearl studs, checked the mirror, and smiled at the stranger who looked exactly like herself.

Makeup at the lit vanity was muscle memory: a base as thin as a secret, a soft shadow at the eye, liner like a whisper, mascara that turned her lashes into punctuation. Her lip had healed. She considered red, considered discretion, chose a soft rose—romance over headline.

Hair: half-up to show her neck, pins anchoring the shawl if she wanted to play at mystery later. One final spritz of perfume—citrus and something warm—then she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for days.

She packed a small black clutch: keys, balm, a tiny vial of scent, the card, because she is sentimental.

On her way out, she paused, turned back, and plucked a black velvet ribbon from a notions jar. She tied it around her wrist, a small bow over her pulse. A keepsake, she thought, and then laughed at herself because of course she was ridiculous.

Swiss whistled when she reappeared, and it wasn’t subtle. He set the pen down, stood up, and circled her like an extremely pleased stylist. “The assignment was elegance. You turned in capital-E Elegance.”

She did a small, embarrassed curtsey that made the lace ripple. “Acceptable?”

“Detainable,” he said, then arched a brow. “Do you want Aether’s approval nod? It’s like being knighted, but quieter.”

As if summoned, Aether passed the office door, glanced in, and stopped with an infinitesimal double take. His mouth didn’t move, but his eyes warmed. “Perfect,” he said simply, and offered a small velvet box from behind his back like this had always been part of the plan.

Inside lay a slender jet hairpin with a tiny drop bead. Functional. Beautiful. Isabella’s chest did a little inconvenient thing. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly shy.

Aether inclined his head. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, which coming from him was a benediction.

Swiss peeked at the clock. “Car at seven. It’s”—he checked his watch with theatrical dread—“six fifty-eight. Run, Cinderella.”

She laughed, took one step, then paused and came back to hug Swiss quick and fierce. “Cover me.”

“I will tell everyone you’re filing,” he said, already sliding behind her desk. “It will be my greatest performance.”

The car waited at the front steps like a glossy punctuation mark. The driver—one of Sister Lidia’s cousins—opened the door with the kind of smile that says I have been paid to be discreet and I am delighted by my work.

The Ministry fell away in the window—stone to trees to city lights—while Isabella let the rhythm of tires and anticipation soothe the last of the nerves into joy. She smoothed her shawl, pressed the rosemary sprig between her fingers and brought it to her nose. Rosemary and silk and perfume. Good omen.

They didn’t go far. The driver turned through gates she knew and didn’t—an old house tucked behind the archives, a place used for dignitaries and legends, most nights asleep. Tonight it was awake.

On the terrace, a cluster of lanterns burned low. Someone had raked the gravel smooth. The front door opened before the driver could knock.

Papa stood there in formal black—tailored jacket, crisp shirt, a black-on-black tie that would have been invisible if he weren’t wearing it with the kind of quiet pride that turns fabric into intention. The miter was nowhere to be seen; his smile was.

For a heartbeat they only looked. The night made a frame of him; the lamps gilded the edges of her. Then he stepped forward, hand to his heart as if he’d been physically struck by a pleasant surprise.

“Madonna,” he murmured, honest reverence turning into a grin. “You are—” He failed at words and settled for truth. “—perfect.”

“Good evening, Papa,” she said, unable to stop the warmth in her voice.

He offered his arm like a vow; she took it like a plan. “This way,” he said, and led her inside.

He’d chosen well. Not a restaurant, not the refectory—the old library on the second floor, retired from everyday use. He’d asked someone to lower the lamps.the sounds of rainfall on velvet played softly. Between two long windows, a small table glowed: linen, flowers gathered from the chapel garden, two candles mirrored in the glass.

She laughed softly, delighted. “You stole a room.”

“I borrowed it,” he said, pleased with himself. “I will return it in better condition.”

He pulled out her chair like he’d been born with one in his hand. As she sat, the lace at her wrist brushed the tablecloth. He took his seat opposite, eyes still catching up to the fact of her.

“Tonight we let our hair down. Tonight, we are allowed to be very happy and a little stupid for two hours.”

“Mercy,” she said, hand to chest. “I can manage that.”

Sister Lidia’s cousin (either the same one or another who looked suspiciously similar) appeared with the first course—a small salad laced with citrus and fennel, wickedly delicate. The wine followed, deep and kind, poured with the hush of a sacrament.

“For my princess,” Papa said as he tipped the bottle, then matched her eyes over the rim as he set it down.

“To my boyfriend,” she answered, clinking, the word warmer and easier each time they used it.

They talked—about nothing, about everything. He reached for water, then for her hand, as if he’d always meant to do both. When dessert arrived (pistachio panna cotta with a cherry), he traded plates with her mid-sentence because he could, because she always liked his better.

He’d brought a gift, of course. Not jewelry, not something heavy with expectation. A small, antique bookmark—brass, shaped like a laurel leaf, just the right weight. “For your… curriculum,” he said, pretending innocence.

She went pink, then laughed, touched. “I’ll use it in the wholesome chapters.”

“Liar,” he said, delighted.

When the candles burned down to soft towers, he stood and came around the table, held out a hand. “One dance,” he asked, nodding toward the narrow stretch of floor between the windows. “You are all I need,” he said, and drew her in. He was careful of her shawl and not at all careful about the way he looked at her. His hands found their map—one at her waist, one linked with hers—and they moved to nothing in particular, just the shared rhythm of breath and a half-remembered melody from last night’s studio.

“You did all this,” she murmured, smiling up at him.

“You do everything for me,” he said, serious for a moment. “I wanted to do one thing beautifully for you.”

“You do lots of things beautifully,” she countered, and raised their joined hands to kiss the back of his, lace scratching lightly against his knuckles. “But this is… perfect.”

He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the safe corner of hers—soft, reverent, the kind of kiss that makes rooms quieter. When he pulled back, he was grinning like a man who had just solved a puzzle and found candy inside.

“Carriage is at ten,” he said, reluctantly practical.

“Then we have twenty minutes of sanctioned stupidity left,” she said, wicked.

“Dangerous woman,” he murmured, thrilled.

They meant to be good.

They almost were.

The old library held its breath around them—lamps low, dust motes like gold notes in the air, shelves rising like witnesses who had seen worse. Their slow dance drifted toward the stacks and stopped not because the song ended, but because they did: face to face, close enough that her shawl slid off her shoulder like a suggestion.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice already wrecked.

“Please.”

That was consent enough for a lifetime. He kissed her—unhurried at first, then fuller when she caught his tie and pulled him down, laughing into his mouth. Her back found the end of a bookcase; wood stayed steady. He bracketed her with his hands.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw and the place just below her ear. Careful at first, then less so when her breath caught and her fingers curled in his collar. She tugged him closer; he obeyed gladly, one hand sliding to the small of her back, the other into her hair. The pins gave up with soft, traitorous clicks. He gathered a handful, anchored her with it—never tight, just enough, a promise—until she arched and said his name like an answer.

“Isabella” he breathed, mouth at her pulse.

“More,” she said, shameless now.

He obliged, kisses mapping the line of her throat, the hollow of it, the dip of her shoulder where lace met skin. She pulled on his hair in return, not to hurt, just to say mine, now. Between them, the silk of her dress and the black of his suit made a soft, busy sound that did something terrible and holy to his composure.

They were clumsy once, laughing, adjusting—her heel catching on a rug, his jacket protesting an unwise button—then sure again, finding a rhythm that was nothing like a performance and everything like breathing. He pressed her gently into the bookcase and felt it hold; she wrapped one leg around his and pulled him the rest of the way in. The kiss went deeper; the room went smaller; the whole world condensed to hands and breath and the quiet, frantic reverence of two people choosing yes.

she hummed happily tugging his hair again so he’d kiss her mouth and then her throat and then her mouth, like a prayer with two lines.

It wasn’t tidy. There was a muffled thud when both of them missed a shelf by an inch; there was a soft curse in Italian and her answering laugh; there was the sound of pages shifting when a row of spines took the shock and did not complain. And then—like stepping through a door they’d both been leaning against—they were over the threshold, together, breathless, held.

After, they stayed pressed to the bookcase, foreheads touching, grinning like thieves. He smoothed her hair with hands that shook, kissed her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth—thanks, apology, joy.

“Are you okay?” he asked, serious again.

She cupped his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “I’m… happy,” she said, smiling helplessly. “And very much okay.”

They straightened each other with tenderness and incompetence. He buttoned her dress wrong the first try; she fixed it and smacked his hands away with a laugh. She knelt to rescue a pin; he found her shawl draped over a bust of some forgotten saint and tried not to take it as commentary. He retied his tie by feel while watching her sweep her hair back with both hands—strands loose, cheeks flushed, the gruifix winking like it knew all their secrets.

“Come here,” he said, dusting an imaginary speck from her shoulder, then softening when he saw what the mirror would: hair slightly wild, lipstick worn to a pretty stain, eyes bright and private. “You look… like a miracle.”

“You look like you climbed a bookcase,” she teased, fixing a strand he’d mussed.

He checked the time and swore softly, gentle even with profanity. “Carriage.”

They slipped out into the corridor, trying to look like people who had merely discussed literature very vigorously. Down the stairs, through the quiet house, onto the terrace where the lanterns burned lower.

The car sat at the foot of the steps. The driver had dozed off, cap tilted over his eyes, mouth slightly open. Isabella pressed her fingers to her lips to strangle a giggle; Papa cleared his throat politely. The driver jerked awake, mortified and fully committed to professionalism in under a second.

“So sorry,” he blurted, rushing to open the door. “I must have—”

“It was a beautiful sermon,” Papa said gravely. “We were blessed.”

Isabella bit her lip—carefully, for multiple reasons—and slid into the back seat. Papa followed, his hand finding hers in the shadow, squeezing once, reverent. As the car pulled away, he leaned in, brushed his nose against her temple, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, eyes on the dark trees passing.

“For choosing me,” he said simply.

She laughed, soft and wrecked in the best way, and let her head find his shoulder while the city welcomed them back, a little late and a lot happier than they had any business being.

Chapter Text

Morning came with the kind of light that forgives. The Ministry breathed in the hush after a late night; radiators clicked like polite applause; somewhere a vacuum hummed three corridors away and stopped as if it, too, remembered to be quiet.

Isabella floated.

Her desk was a small island of order—mug, pen cup, the plant Swiss claimed was a fern and Aether insisted was a weed, laptop open to a spreadsheet she had no chance of loving today. She tried, sainted creature that she was, to care about column widths and courier windows.

But her mind kept slipping back to last night.

Isabella smothered a smile behind her knuckles and returned her eyes to the screen. A line item multiplied into two, into five, into... a Rorschach test. She was useless and happy and, for once, not ashamed of either.

Her phone buzzed face down on the blotter. She didn't notice. It buzzed again, a little longer. A calendar ping chimed, then a gentle boop from the security app, then silence.

The office door on her left clicked open. Cardi stepped out in shirtsleeves with a faint ink-smudge on one finger and a smile that looked like the inside of a well-kept secret. The sight of him knocked the fog off her brain in one clean sweep.

"Hi," she said, stupid with contentment.

"Hi," he echoed, equally foolish. He leaned in the doorway a moment, taking her in—the light on her cheek, the way she was clearly not typing at all. The smile turned private. "Work going well?"

"Flawlessly," she lied, cheeks warm.

He huffed a laugh and, out of mercy, retreated to his office before he could become a bigger distraction.

The phone rang then—long, insistent, the ringtone she'd assigned to people who were never as dramatic as they thought they were.

V.

She sighed, thumbed it on, and hit speaker before she could regret it. "Good morning, Papa V."

"Disaster," he intoned, delighted to be alive to report it. The sound of a bus around him—cases, chatter, the faint squeak of someone opening a Pelican case like it owed back rent. "Someone has spilled bleach on one of my robes. It looks like the moon tried to write a poem on the hem."

Isabella opened a fresh note. "Do you have the backup with you?"

A full beat of theatrical silence. "I do not."

"Of course you don't," she muttered, already pushing her chair back.

"But!" he rallied, contrite. "There is a spare in my room at the Ministry. I... forgot it. You may berate me."

She pinched the bridge of her nose and looked at her beautiful, empty, useless spreadsheet. "All right. I'll handle it."

"You are a jewel in human clothes," he sang, and hung up before she could threaten him with anything creative.

The room returned to itself. Isabella stared at the phone for two seconds, then set it down with the parental patience of a woman who has chosen this exact circus.

She gathered what she'd need on instinct: lanyard, keys, a garment bag from the closet, measuring tape (because V's "spare" might secretly mean "needs rescue"), her notebook, a strip of tailor's chalk. She checked the time, checked her capacity to be cheerful about any of this.

At the threshold, a shadow fell across the carpet. Cardi again, gentled smile faded to concern at the sight of the garment bag and her resigned competence face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Isabella's fingers were already moving before her brain caught up.

"V ruined his cape," she told Cardi, riffling through the inbox tray for the laminated itinerary. "Bleach."

Cardi's mouth did a sympathetic wince. "Spare?"

"In his room," she said, flipping pages. "If—ah—he remembered correctly." She spread the tour packet, phone in her other hand, calendar open. "Okay, they finished last night in Birmingham, next venue is London—" scroll, scroll "—load-in started at noon, call at four..." She checked the wall clock. 11:02. "Driving time... I can do it, if I stay sane and merciful traffic."

His brows lifted. "So—"

"So I leave now." She snapped the binder shut, snatched the garment bag from the coat stand, and slung it over a shoulder. "I have to take it to him; courier would miss the window."

"Aspetta, do you want company?" Cardi asked, stepping aside but not out of the worry.

"I'll be quick," she promised, tipping up on her toes to kiss his cheek—fast, warm. "Text you from the road. Cardi, be good, not not set anything on fire and eat and drink, don't let Swiss plug a laser into the toaster again."

He huffed despite himself. "Va bene. Call if you need anything."

"Always." She was already moving.

V's corridor felt cooler; he cranked the radiators too low or not at all. His door stuck a centimeter from the jamb like it resented being opened by anyone but purple. Isabella braced a shoulder, worked the key, and pushed through.

Dust and cologne met her—old paper, cedar, something barbershop neat. The room had been shut up since he left: bed made like a show bed, the faint outline of a case where it had lived too long on the settee. A glass on the dresser wore a ring of dust like a halo.

"Hello, mausoleum," she muttered, crossing to the wardrobe.

His closet was a small theater: capes bagged and labeled in tidy script, collars nested like sleeping birds, a row of gloves rolled in a drawer like patient snakes. She slid hangers, reading tags—Tour A / Tour B / Stunt—until she found it.

She unzipped, checked the lining, checked the hem for unhemmed threads and folded it across her arm, velvet sighing as it settled. The garment bag yawned open in her other hand; she guided the cape inside, fingers deft from a hundred such rescues.

Zipped. Done. She exhaled, that quick satisfaction of a problem punished into order—and then glanced up to catch sight of herself in the wardrobe's mirror.

Her. Twice. Pinned to the wall beside the mirror with neat brass tacks were two polaroid photos.

The first she knew: the masquerade—gold-and-black, half-mask, laughing over her shoulder as someone spun her. The frame had caught the moment just before she'd found Cardi with her eyes; she could almost feel the pull in her face.

The second was smaller, candid—her at her desk in daylight, hair pulled up, pen bitten between her teeth, brow furrowed in the exact way she never let people see if she could help it. A mug sat beside her elbow. Whoever had taken it had done so from the door, from the hall, from a stolen half-second when she'd been looking away.

Isabella's breath went thin. She knew he flirted, but enough to have photos? The cape in her hands felt suddenly heavier.

The room stayed very quiet.

She stepped closer without meaning to, as if proximity would make sense out of it. Her face looked back at her twice—party-bright, work-soft—pinned like specimens in a tidy man's private case.

Behind her, down the corridor, a door clicked. A voice—Cardi's—carried light on the old stone. "Isabella? Do you need—" He stopped at the threshold, the question falling quiet when he saw her face, the garment bag half-zipped, and the wall she was staring at.

Cardi took in the wall in one breath, then another—and something in him went very still.

He crossed the room without a word, reached up, and slid the first tack free with his thumb. The masquerade photo came away clean. He studied it for half a heartbeat—her gold and black, her eyes turned toward a joy only you could see—and then lowered it, jaw tight, care precise. The second photo—her desk, your brow furrowed, the private way you live when you think no one is looking—made his mouth flatten. He plucked that one down too, gentler than his expression.

"Those," he said quietly, "are not for his wall."

"Cardi," she began—soft, warning, grateful.

He didn't tear or crumple. He smoothed the edges with two fingers and slipped both photos into the inside pocket of his jacket like fragile letters. Only then did he look at her, the anger complicated now—protective, yes; jealous, yes; but most of all hurt on her behalf.

She leaned back against the wardrobe, cape bag balanced on her arm, choosing the ground carefully. "You can come, if you like," she said, light but not flippant.

He let out a breath that looked like it had been holding a decade. "I do not trust myself to be polite," he admitted.

"You don't have to speak to him," she said. "You can drink bad venue coffee, and glare from a distance" A tiny smile. "Or you can just... sit in the car with me and make fun of motorway signage."

His shoulders eased a fraction. He looked at the empty wall space, then back to her. "I hate that he pinned you like that," he said, honest. "Like a saint card he forgot to pray to."

"We can be mad in the car."

He nodded once, decided. "I am coming."

"Good," she said, relief and affection braided. She zipped the garment bag, hefted it. "I'll grab my bag and keys."

They moved. He took the garment bag from her without argument—carrying it like a relic—while she snagged her tote and double-checked the courier forms she no longer needed.

In the corridor, she bumped his shoulder. "When we get there, I'll go straight to wardrobe. You can stay in the loading bay—no purple required Unless you need to glare."

"Excellent," he said dryly. "I will practice my glare on road cones."

They made for the front steps at a purposeful clip. Outside, the winter air bit and woke them fully. He opened the passenger door for her, stowed the cape carefully across the back seat, and rounded to the driver's side.

As he slid behind the wheel, he glanced at her lap, then her face. "I am... sorry," he said, quieter now. "That you had to see that in that room. And that I was—" he searched for the word, found it—"unpretty about it."

She reached across the console and threaded their fingers. "You were protective," she said. "And you were gentle with the only thing that mattered—me."

He kissed her knuckles, quick and grateful, and turned the ignition. The engine caught; Swiss's playlist announced itself with an opening chord that sounded suspiciously like righteous 80s synth.

"London," he declared, setting the car in gear.

"London," she echoed. "With motorway signage slander."

He smiled, the good one, and pulled away from the Ministry. The photos were safe in his jacket, the cape safe in the back, and the road stretched out long enough for them to be mad together, then laugh together.

London pulled them in with wet roads and impatient lights.

They'd traded righteous-'80s synth for traffic updates somewhere past Brent Cross, and by the time the venue's loading bay came into view, Isabella's knee was bouncing with mission energy.

"Go," Papa said, easing the car to a stop by the security gate. "I'll park. Text if you get lost in the maze."

She pressed her keys into his palm—trust, thanks, later—and was already out the door with the garment bag over her shoulder, breath frosting in the cold.

Backstage London was a civilized labyrinth: arrows taped to concrete, the smell of hot dust and coffee, crew in black moving like they'd rehearsed it. Isabella flashed her lanyard, ducked a rolling riser, dodged a harried tech who yelled "Heads!" at a flight case and "Sorry!" at her.

"Wardrobe?" she called to a passing stagehand.

"Down two, right at sound world, purple door," he said, not slowing.

Down two. Right. Purple door. She found Wardrobe—harried angels—handed off the garment bag with a "Velvet, backup, do not steam the lining," and didn't wait for applause.

"Dressing rooms?" she asked.

"Opposite hall, end of the run," someone answered, wrist-deep in sequins. "Good luck."

Her phone buzzed: Cardi: Parked. In loading bay. Cones glared at successfully.
She thumbed back a heart without breaking stride.

At the end of the corridor a door wore a taped label: PAPA V. Voices faint beyond—someone laughing, the zip of a makeup case. Isabella took one quick breath and knocked.

No answer. Time was a fist. She tried the handle. It turned.

She pushed in—and stopped short.

V stood in front of the mirror in trousers and nothing above the waist, skin a map of muscles and mischief, half his corpsepaint already on. One glove, no cape, the collar open like a question. He turned at the sound, eyes wide, and for a half-beat both of them froze like burglars under a spotlight.

"I have it," Isabella blurted, breathless, shoulder braced against the door, garment bag lifted like a trophy.

He actually jumped—just a little, hand to his heart with theatrical offense. "Sorella! You nearly subtracted a century from my afterlife."

"I thought you were a vampire?" she said smirking slightly. She swung the bag onto the costume stand and unzipped it in one clean motion, velvet sighing as the cape unfurled. "Bleach is the enemy, I am the cavalry, you're welcome."

V put a palm to his forehead, then to his chest as if swearing fealty to the garment. "You are a saint with excellent timing." He flicked a glance at the door, then at her, perfectly aware he was half dressed and entirely unbothered. "Is your chaperone with you?"

"Parking the car," she said, dry. "Practicing his glare on cones."

"Good," V purred, already sliding into the cape, the purple lining catching the room's light. He preened once—habit—and then turned, contrite around the edges. "Grazie, Sorella. Truly."

Isabella stepped back, the adrenaline ebbing. "Don't bleed on it. And for the love of the archives—no bleach."

He pressed a hand to his heart. "No bleach," he vowed, solemn and amused.

Her phone buzzed again—Papa: At wardrobe. Found coffee. I am not speaking to the purple man.
She exhaled, a laugh slipping free now that the mission was complete.

"Cape delivered," she said, already backing toward the hall. "Break a leg. Not the hem."

V sketched a half-bow, half-wink. V adjusted the cape, watching the purple lining catch the light, when Isabella lingered at the door instead of slipping out.

"One more thing," she said, voice even. "A courtesy before the Papa gets teeth."

He stilled, eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Sì?"

"Papa may—or may not—have seen the photos you had pinned in your room," she said. "Of me."

V's expression flickered: surprise, then rue, then something that looked a lot like regret. He turned, hands open. "You are correct to warn me."

"I understand you're a man with... tastes, desires, trust me...I've seen you guys out there" she went on. "But he is not pleased."

V inclined his head. "The masquerade photo was... pride," he said, honest. "A night I enjoyed because you were bright in it. The desk picture—" he winced "—was vanity. A moment I stole because you looked like the beating heart of a machine I pretend to command." He took a breath. "Mi dispiace, Isabella."

She held his gaze. "Did you take the candid?"

"Yes," he said at once. "I did," he admitted softly, "Still kind of...do...like you. I do. I am not made of smoke, even if I sell it. But the second I knew Cardi had you—and that you had him—I stepped back." He lifted a shoulder, concession in the gesture. "Desire does not switch off like a lamp. It lingers in private. I am guilty of... keeping it company."

Isabella let that sit, feeling the truth of it and its limits. "Thank you for admitting that" she said.

"And I will apologize to him if he asks for it—to you regardless."

She bowed her head with a smile.

V bowed his head. "Isabella, I am sorry I made you a wall—when you are a person I respect. I will not keep copies."

"Good," she said, the tension unwinding. "That helps."

He gestured faintly toward the cape, wry again. "And for what it's worth—if the world must see me grand, it is often because you have made the quiet parts possible. You have been nothing but a delight to the clergy. I know whose work I wear."

She huffed a laugh. "Wear it without bleach and we can be friends."

"Done," he promised.

Her phone buzzed: Cardi: South corridor. Two coffees. Safe zone achieved.
She thumbed back: On my way.

Isabella stepped to the door, then glanced back. She opened the door. "Break a leg, V."

He saluted with two fingers, lighter now. "Tell him—" he paused, chose better "—tell Cardi I will be... civilized."

"I will tell him" she said, and slipped out.

In the corridor's cooler air, Papa waited with the promised coffees, reading her face the second she rounded the corner. She took the cup, touched his wrist in their quiet signal—I'm okay—and let out a breath.

"How did it go?" he asked, voice low.

"As well as it could have gone. But alas I saved the day, as usual" she nudged Papa with a smile.

Cardi's jaw eased a notch. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Come on," she said, nodding toward the loading bay. He offered his arm; she took it.

They took the coffees down the service corridor, past coiled cables and taped arrows, the venue humming itself awake. Isabella felt Papa watching her more than the hall—reading the set of her shoulders the way he read a room.

"I... want to stay," he said finally, almost shy about wanting. "To watch the show. If that's all right. With you."

She smiled into her cup. "It's more than all right."

He hesitated, then: "What happened in there?"

She didn't make him ask twice. "I told him you might have seen the photos." A breath. "He admitted he liked me. Still does, it must be a side effect of the job" she said with a wink. "But he said the second he knew I was yours, he stepped back."

Papa's jaw set, then loosened. "He said this."

"He did," she said. "He apologized. To me, to you if you want it."

They paused at a junction where the concrete funneled the sound of a line-check—kick drum like a heartbeat, a bass note rolling along the ductwork. Papa looked at the floor, at her hand around the cup, back to her eyes. His jealousy—there, honest—ran its arc and settled into something steadier.

"Thank you for telling me" he said, voice low.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. "You can be mad. You can also be smug. I am your girlfriend."

That did it; the private smile returned. He exhaled, relief and a touch of triumph braided. "I will take smug over mad. It tastes better."

"Good," she said, and tucked her hand into the crook of his free arm.

Chapter Text

They'd just hit the corridor when a comet in leather and grin slammed into them.

"SISTER! PAPA!!" Sodo all but skidded to a stop, eyes blown wide with delight. "You came! Come—come—come—this way!"

Before either could protest, he'd latched a hand around Isabella's wrist, the other around Papa's sleeve, and towed them down a service hall at a dead sprint, laughing breathlessly. "You have to see it from here."

They burst through a black drape and into the wing, breath-stolen-close to the curtain. From here, the stage was all angles and shadow, the lights a haloed storm. The band slammed into an outro; the crowd roared like weather. Sodo bounced on his heels, thrilled, and pointed—watch. Sodo rushed past them and had a guitar thrown to him as he went up beside Phantom joining in with the slow introduction music.

Papa slid his fingers down with Isabella. She squeezed softly as emotional support.

Halfway through, V swiveled as if pulled by a string, gaze raking the wings. His eyes found them—Isabella first, then Cardi at her shoulder. A three-beat pause. He smiled slow and wicked into his mic.

"Londra," he purred, pacing downstage, cape breathing behind him, "how would you feel about... two Papas tonight?"

The answer hit like a tidal wave. Screams, hands, phones. Swiss's "disciplined sparkle" became a rebel starburst; Aether's bass rolled like a warning and a dare.

Cardi went very still, then leaned to Isabella, dry as a desert and twice as nervous. "I do hope he means Papa Nihil, because I am not dressed for the occasion nor am I ready!."

"I got you Papa," said a voice at his elbow with lethal professionalism. One of the wardrobe angels had materialized from smoke—pins in her mouth, headset crooked, eyes already mapping him like a pattern. "We can fix that."

Before he could complete a protest, she'd seized his sleeve with a tenderness that brooked no argument. "Makeup. Robe. Five minutes. Move."

"I—" he tried, looking to Isabella like a man about to be thrown into a river and trusting the river anyway.

She caught his hand, squeezed once, eyes bright. "Go," she said, grinning. "I'll be here. I'll watch you be brave."

Something settled—fear into decision, decision into mischief. He kissed her knuckles, quick, old-fashioned, and let the wardrobe sergeant drag him into the dim. V kept the crowd going, teasing them.

"What are we doing?" he asked as they hustled around him.

"Making you look like Papa" she shot back, already thumbing her radio. "Face, powders, a very convincing collar, and the good black. Let's make a miracle, darling."

Back at the curtain, Sodo vibrated beside Isabella like a tuning fork. "HE'S GONNA DO IT," he stage-whispered, giddy. "Ohhh he's gonna do it."

Isabella kept her eyes on the stage where V was playing the crowd like strings, promising nothing, promising everything. She smoothed her shawl, found her breath, and smiled toward the dark where her Papa was being powdered and buttoned by angels.

"Of course he is," she murmured. "It's what he was made for."

He came back like a secret finally told—robes black as a vow, embroidery catching the wing light, collar sitting just so. The white facepaint turned his eyes into a storm; the miter was the old shape, the one that fit him like he was born wearing it.

Isabella's breath actually hitched. "Oh," she said, useless and happy.

He stopped long enough at the wing for her to rise on her toes and press a quick kiss to his mouth. A pale thumbprint of paint bloomed on her lip; he laughed once, wrecked and grateful, and cupped her jaw for the briefest second.

"Good luck," she whispered.

"I have my angel here. I don't need it," he whispered back.

Out front, V paced downstage, cape breathing. The house was a living thing.

"Londra," he purred into the mic, playing the crowd like an instrument. "My brother... Papa Emeritus the Fourth. Everyone"

The room exploded unlike anything she had ever heard. Her ears felt like they would cave in.

It wasn't applause; it was natural—cameras up, hands up, a sound that lived in the ribs. Cardi stepped from the wing into it, not rushing, shoulders settling into the old, perfect posture. He met V at center and the two of them bowed—formal, courtly, the kind of grace that tells a thousand stories without a word.

For a half second, time split: the ache he'd carried for so long looked him in the eye and then stepped aside. He swallowed whatever he'd brought here—jealousy, anger, the coin that wouldn't go down—and chose the thing he'd always chosen when the lights came up.

He chose the stage.

V grinned sideways, mischief and respect twinned. "Let's hear you," he teased the crowd, then pivoted, splitting the sea with a hand. "Right side—" he pointed to the tiers stacked over Isabella's head "—for Cardi."

The right lifted the roof. The floor thrummed under Isabella's shoes; her chest rattled with joy and paint and pride.

"Left—" V turned, cape flashing "—for me." he purred.

The left answered, fierce and bright, a wave that curled and crashed back.

V cocked a brow, delighted. Cardi's mouth tipped, that old cat-smile finding him again. He lifted a palm—no showboating, just inviting—and the right side went feral. He waited, then folded the air down with a gentle, precise press; they obeyed, god-bless them, breath held, adoring.

V mirrored, playing the left with equal joy, then cut it clean. Silence stood up straight between them.

Cardi angled the mic away and leaned into the noise with nothing but his hands—the smallest wrist, the familiar curve, the old punctuation that meant I see you. The answer was a tidal scream, raw and round, the kind that left throats ragged and hearts sure.

V laughed into his mic, raised both arms, and the whole room became one voice, one long chord of yes.

"Looks like we might have to call it even" Papa V chuckled

Cardi lifted the mic up to his lips. "Eh Eh...they clearly loved me more"

Screaming and crying just exploded the arena.

At the wing, paint still on her lip, Isabella felt tears prick for the silliest reason, but because he looked home.

V stepped close, stage-quiet between them. "Shall we?" he mouthed.

Cardi nodded, eyes bright under kohl. Side by side—two silhouettes under a cathedral of light—they let the band count them in, and for a few shared minutes the past and present chose one another, loud enough to make peace and sweet enough to hurt.

From the curtain, Isabella watched him do the thing he'd been born to do, and the room returned it, and somewhere under the paint he was smiling the smile he only wore when he felt absolutely, blessedly alive.

It turned into one of those nights people spend years trying to describe.

They didn't split the set; they shared it—verses traded like promises, choruses doubled until the rafters rang. Cardi slipped his voice under V's when the older songs asked for shadow; V lifted over Cardi when the new ones wanted teeth. On "Cirice" the harmony locked so perfectly the room forgot to breathe; on "Spillways" they laughed into the last line like two kids.

And then—"Hunter's Moon."

The band laid the intro like a spell. Lights thinned to a cold silver wash; the stage floor glimmered like frost. Side by side at center, the two Papa's sang it not as rivals but as a braid—Cardi on the steady line, V on the glittering edge, the melody suddenly bigger because it had two hearts to live in. When the last refrain climbed, Cardi let it bloom in his chest and V set a thread of light above it; the room turned into one huge, aching mouth singing it back.

They held the final note just long enough to feel the silence lean in.

And then the glass appeared.

Crew wheeled out the grand glass coffin with ceremony—mirrors catching the spill of light, wheels whispering over stage decking. A tech in a shroud leaned earnestly over a control box, stage-kidding a ritual into life as "Miasma" slunk through the PA—sleazy and inevitable.

Inside the coffin: Papa Nihil's tux and skull paint, frighteningly convincing even to the people who knew better. A tangle of tubes and stage nonsense suggested a machine being coaxed toward resurrection.

The crowd screeched with delight. Cardi and V shared a look—then threw themselves into the oldest joke on earth.

"No—no—no—" V protested in exaggerated terror, cape flaring as he darted to the switch like a cat stealing baptismal water. "We mustn't!"

Cardi swooped from the other side, equally dramatic. "Assolutamente no! He will haunt the crowd!" He turned to the crowd "Do you guys want to get haunted by Papa Nihil?"

The crowd exploded with screams.

"Eh I guess they do" Papa V chcukled.

Cardi planted both hands on the tech's shoulders and tried to gently pry him away from his own gag.

They play-fought like brothers who had been doing this in back rooms for a decade—cape tangles, mock scolding, each trying to out-melodrama the other while the coffin's LEDs started a sinful pulse. The sound op turned the synth up; the stagehand did an award-worthy impression of a man wrestling the laws of nature.

The Papas lunged for the panel together—and were promptly shoved aside by another black-clad stagehand with saintly commitment to the bit. Cardi skidded, V staggered, both milked it for all it was worth as the coffin's lid hissed.

A gloved hand rose.

The "corpse" sat up with impeccable timing—skull grin to the gods—just as the tenor line in "Miasma" slithered into place. A tech sprinted on with the sax like a royal scepter, thrust it into Nihil's waiting hands, and jumped backward into the wings with cartoon terror.

Cardi and V, still theatrically "fighting" to stop the inevitable, found themselves parted by the sheer force of the gag as "Nihil" planted his feet, lifted the horn, and blew the opening wail.

The arena detonated.

It was ridiculous, and perfect, and sacred in the way only this band could manage. V clutched his heart and staggered back, begging the sky for mercy; Cardi threw his arms wide to the crowd like, Well—he's back—you deal with it. The band leaned into the groove, riders tucked smiles behind their teeth, lights spilling purple gold over glass and paint and joy.

From the wing, Isabella watched with a hand over her mouth, laughing and crying and alive in a way you only get when the night decides to be generous. Onstage, two Papas shared a bow of mutual mock-horror and real respect, then swung back to the mics to let the sax do what it was born to do while the rest of them held the joke together like a prayer.

Once-in-a-lifetime, twice as loud, exactly enough.

From the wing, Isabella couldn't wipe the smile off her face if she tried. Seeing them both laugh and lean into the bit—seeing him glow under the lights again—filled her up like a hymn. V glanced their way once, caught her grin, and—bless him—stepped aside, cape folding back as he ceded center stage with a little flourish that said: your turn, brother.

Cardi took the mic like it was an old friend he'd missed. The paint, the collar, the cut of the robe—yes—but what settled over him was older than wardrobe: ease. He looked out at London and then down into the first rows as if the room were a person he wanted to remember, and the room loved him for it.

He tipped the mic a fraction away, voice warm through the reverb. "This," he said, pride softening everything, "is a song my Papa used to sing."

A ripple ran through the bowl—recognition and thrill. Sodo turned on his heel to face him, guitar already slung low, lips quirking under the mask like he'd been waiting for this exact cue all night. He counted it in with a little nod, then dropped the opening figure to "Mary on a Cross"—that lazy, swaggering line that always felt like velvet and sin.

Cardi didn't rush. He rested one hand on the mic stand, the other lifted in that familiar open palm—receive, don't grab—and sang the first line like a memory he'd been saving. The band tucked in around him: bass thick as honey, drums smiling in the backbeat, keys brushing light along the top like a blessing.

Across from him, Sodo played at him, not just with him—neck angled up, body bouncing on the beat, pushing a little extra bite into the bends just to see Cardi answer it. He did: a glance over the mic, a half-smile, a vocal turn shaded a hair bluer than the record. The crowd lost its mind in a way that sounded like laughter and prayer at once.

V stayed out of the cone—two steps back, cape falling still, hands folded politely as if presiding over a ceremony he genuinely enjoyed. Every so often he cut his eyes at Isabella and gave the tiniest "see?" nod, and she answered with one of her own that meant thank you.

On the pre-chorus, Cardi moved—three slow steps downstage, not strut, not stalk, just belonging—and the phones went up like stars. He didn't court them. He let the chorus arrive and opened, voice riding the air easy, letting the room sing the top while he took the heart. Sodo slid into the harmony on the second go, head tipped, plectrum flashing under the wash of lights. Aether and Swiss, somewhere in the dark, nudged the mix just so—vocal bright, guitar sweet, drums warm—and the whole thing landed like a hand on a shoulder you love.

"Sing with me London!"

The audience lit up singing 'Mary on a cross' It send goosebumps up her skin.

It wasn't a victory lap. It was a homecoming. He leaned into the second verse with that tiny, private wrist, the one that used to drive her insane on grainy tour clips, and Isabella felt laughter catch in her throat. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, eyes stinging, ridiculous and happy.

Bridge—Sodo took his little solo, not shredding, stepping closer until there were only two men and a line of melody between them. Cardi watched his hands, then looked him in the eye and gave a "yes" with his whole face. The roar that came back felt like relief.

The last chorus lifted—the room carried it, Cardi steered it, V beamed at it—and when the final chord rang, he didn't milk it. He let it bloom, then bowed his head in thanks like a man being careful with a gift.

Silence held a heartbeat. Then the place detonated again, this time warmer—family noise, not frenzy. V stepped back in, hand to Cardi's shoulder, and the two of them shared a look that said truce in a language older than speeches.

From the wing, Isabella breathed out a laugh that turned into a small, helpless tear. He'd been himself again—no tricks, no flapping, just the voice and the room and the right guitar facing him like a friend. She tapped her gruifix, an old habit that now felt like saying I saw it. I kept it, and let herself be as happy as the moment deserved.

Chapter Text

Back in the wing, the noise still buzzing the curtains, V found her first.

He stepped out of the light with his cape gathered in one hand, paint still perfect, eyes bright with the kind of high only a clean show gives. He bowed just enough to make it charming, took Isabella's fingers, and kissed the back of her hand—courtly, grateful, not a beat too long.

"You saved the day, Sorella," he said, voice soft with sincerity instead of theater. "And perhaps... a little of my dignity."

She leaned in and brushed a brief kiss to his cheek. "You were great, V," she said, meaning it. Then she turned his hand and, with the same gentle ceremony he'd given her, took his wrist—their small language for thank you, I saw what you did and it mattered. "And thank you for bringing Papa out."

Something eased in his face. He covered her hand with his free one and dipped his head. "It was the right night to remember who we are," he murmured. "All of us."

Behind him the crowd swelled again; a crew tech barreled past with a case; the band's laughter pinged off the cinderblock. V released her, one step back, boundary kept, pride intact.

"Go to him," he added, a flicker of mischief returning. "He is pretending to be calm and failing beautifully."

She smiled, already turning toward the darker end of the wing where black robes and white paint waited just out of the light. "Good luck with the rest of the tour. I'm a call away."

He pressed a hand to his heart, wounded and amused. "Thank you Isabella" he swore, and melted back toward the glare, leaving her to walk into the shadow where her Papa was, the truce still warm between every heartbeat of the house.

Isabella met him in the wing before the roar had even faded, hands already lifting to his face.

She kissed him—careful of the paint, careless of everything else—and smiled so wide it made his shoulders drop. "I am so proud of you," she breathed. "Going out there with no prep, no plan—just you."

Papa glowed under the white and black, eyes bright as a lit stage. "It was the perfect moment," he said, a little stunned, a lot happy. "I felt it... open. I just had to step."

She thumbed a smear of white from the corner of his mouth and laughed when she realized it had transferred to hers. "You did more than step. You owned it."

"I almost ran," he confessed, boy-soft. "Then I saw you at the curtain."

From downstage, a crew call yanked the night forward; a case rattled past. Isabella tugged his collar straight and pressed another kiss to the safe edge of his mouth. "Come on, star. Wash off. we will head home. Hopefully Swiss has not burnt the Ministry down."

He caught her wrist, kissed the inside of it through a smile that wouldn't quit. "Only if you walk with me."

"Always," she said, lacing their fingers, and led him into the softer dark, his glow following them like an echo of the crowd.

They missed the last good exit before the rain remembered how to be rain again.

It started as a polite mist, then turned into a sheet—wipers slapping, road hissing, headlights smearing into uncertain halos. The car gave them a brave ten minutes of optimism and then coughed, sighed, and coasted to the shoulder like an old saint refusing one more miracle.

Cardi tried the ignition once, twice. Nothing but a stubborn click.

"Okay," Isabella said, breath fogging a small crescent on the window. "We're officially in a little trouble."

He checked his phone. One bar flickered, vanished. She checked hers. Nothing. The little SOS icon blinked with the cheerful uselessness of a paper map in a monsoon.

"Big trouble" Papa sighed.

They sat a a few minutes, listening to the rain drum the roof.

"We could wait," he offered.

"We'll freeze Papa. It's dead of winter" She shook her head, already unbuckling. "There was a sign a mile back. The Cormorant Inn — 1.5 miles. If that's real, it's walking distance."

He hesitated, then nodded, practical swallowing romance. "We go slow. Hands."

They bundled: his coat around her shoulders, her shawl wound scandalously tight around his throat. He locked the car and tucked the keys in an inside pocket like talisman and promise.

The rain met them chest-first—cold, honest. They leaned into it the way you lean into a hard day, side by side, hands linked. Hedgerows sulked. The lane unspooled without hurry. Every few steps a cottage light glowed far off like another life.

They got soaked, and then past soaked—the kind of wet where you stop flinching and start laughing because what else is there. Isabella's hair surrendered first; her eyeliner softened into a saintly blur. Cardi's curls went from halo to obedient trouble, paint long gone, face young in the smudged dark.

When the sign appeared, tilted and gallant under a dripping oak, they cheered like children who'd found the final clue. The Cormorant Inn was a low, stubborn building—stone, slate, light spilling gold from mullioned windows. A bell jingled when they pushed inside; the smell of heat and old wood and something fried met them like a hug.

The woman at the bar looked up, eyebrows leaping at their puddle forms. "Well, then," she said, amused and kind. "Storm got you?"

"Car did," Isabella confessed. "Storm finishing the job."

"Room?" the woman asked, already pulling a key from a board.

"Yes, please," Cardi said. "And food if the kitchen has mercy."

"Kitchen is me and I have mercy," she said. "Last room's a double, top of the stairs. Fish pie or ham and cheese? Tea or beer?"

"Both teas," Isabella said at once, grinning. "One pie, one sandwich."

"Fine choices," the woman said, sliding the key across. "Towels in the wardrobe. Heat's on a timer."

They climbed the narrow stair leaving a dark breadcrumb trail and opened onto a small, clean room cheered by a radiator that meant it. One wide bed. A chair with ambitions. A little kettle with chipped mugs. A view of the car park gravel going soft under the storm.

Isabella stood in the doorway a second, dripping and smiling at nothing. "It's perfect," she decided.

"Take the bathroom," he said, already shucking his coat and finding the towels. "I'll make the tea."

She vanished into the steam and reemerged ten minutes later wearing one of the inn's white robes and the contentment of a person who had made a pact with hot water. Her gruifix peeked at the collar; her hair was towel-wild; her makeup had washed into something soft and wide-eyed. He forgot to hand her the cup for a beat.

"You," he said, a little stunned at the ordinary loveliness of it, "are very wet."

She laughed, took the tea, shoulders finally letting go. He took his turn in the shower and came out equally clean and ridiculous—robe too small across his shoulders, calves ungentlemanly, grin undimmable.

They ate at the small table by the window while the rain did its best impression of a drum line. The food was exactly the right kind of terrible-good; the tea arrived strong enough to hold a spoon upright.

They migrated to the bed because there was nowhere else to be. It was old and earnest and piled with too many blankets. She slid in first, hair damp against the pillow; he followed. They lay facing each other, hands between them, air warm with tea and steam and gratitude.

"Papa" Isabella's voice was soft and quiet.

"Yes princess?"

"Kiss me like the rain is an audience and we don't care."

He did. Slow, then deeper when she made that small sound in her throat and curled her fingers into his robe. Somewhere in the middle he tugged gently at her hair just to see; she returned the favor with a wicked little smile and a kiss under his jaw that made him forget his own name for a beat.

They drew it out until the rain seemed to slow in approval. When it turned the old, necessary corner from kissing to anything more, he asked with his eyes; she answered with her hands and a yes he felt all the way through.

After, they tucked back into the ridiculous pile of blankets, skin warm, the window fogged like a blush. He traced lazy shapes on her shoulder—circles, notes, the outline of a tiny mediocre fox. She laughed into his chest and bit his robe tie in retaliation.

"Are you happy?" he asked, low.

"Embarrassingly," she said, looking up. "And you?"

"Incredibly so," he said, kissing her forehead, then her mouth, then her forehead again like a ritual he didn't plan to break.

At some point they fell asleep to rain and radiator and the thunk of someone downstairs locking up. The inn shrank to hold them; the road forgot them; the car sat like a well-behaved dog waiting for morning.

They woke to a quiet that had rinsed itself clean. Pale light, damp hedges, the smell of bacon sneaking up the stair. Isabella stretched like a satisfied cat; her hair was a mess, makeup a soft halo she didn't bother to fix yet. Cardi looked at her like she was an angel.

"Breakfast?" he asked.

"Breakfast," she agreed. "Then we ask for a phone and call a tow company."

He snagged her wrist, kissed the inside of it, and smiled. "And we write a postcard to the future. 'Got stranded. Spent the night together. Five stars. Would break down again.'"

She laughed, pressed her nose to his, and said, "Seal it," so he kissed her once more just to make sure the middle of nowhere understood: it had been forgiven and even loved a little, because it had given them a room, a pie, and a night that felt like us.

They took the corner table by the window like they'd booked it weeks ahead—sun on slate roofs, hedges shaking themselves dry, two plates that could feed small armies: eggs, toast, tomatoes, bacon, mushrooms, hash in a little crock that smelled like apologies.

Isabella buttered toast with missionary zeal. "This might be the best breakfast I've ever had," she declared.

Papa smiled wildly at her, pouring tea like a decent man in a good robe.

After the second pot of tea and a negotiation with the innkeeper for a late checkout, reality knocked. Isabella borrowed the landline from behind the bar and dialed the tow service, laying out their coordinates and the car's symptoms with competent patience. "Yes, lay-by on the B-road just past the Cormorant Inn. Yes, hazard triangles. Yes, we love you."

She hung up, slid the receiver home, and turned to tell Cardi they were saved—just as the bell over the door jingled and a gust of crisp air announced two very familiar shapes.

Swiss and Aether swept in, smelling of van, coffee, and unnecessary heroism. Swiss clocked them instantly—two damp, happy sinners at a country-inn breakfast—and did a Broadway double-take. Aether didn't double-take; he simply set eyes on them, assessed "alive, warm, fed," and let his shoulders stop auditioning as shoulders.

"We followed your last known location," Swiss said before the bell had finished ringing, flinging his arms wide. "Do you know how easy it is to find two romantics when you abandon a car on a B-road like a breadcrumb?"

Aether lifted a brow. "We found the car first," he said, voice the usual warm flat. "It looked offended."

Isabella stood to hug them both because gratitude made her fond of the whole world. "We were going to call you after we called the tow."

Swiss leaned around her to peer at the plates. "Is that hash?"

"Sit," Isabella ordered. "Steal everything. Tell us you brought a plan."

Aether hung their coats on the pegs, calm as Sunday. "Tow truck ETA twenty minutes; they'll take your car back to the Ministry's garage. We'll take you back in the van."

Swiss slid into the bench opposite and stole a mushroom with zero shame. "Also, this place is adorable. Did you get the room with the slanted ceiling?"

"We got the only room, thank you."

Swiss clocked her hair, his neckline, the shared glow, and pressed a hand to his heart. "The narrative is rich."

Aether set a carrier bag on the table with practical flourish: spare socks, two hand towels, a tiny bottle of ibuprofen, and a comb. "You two looked... weathered," he said, which was his way of being kind.

Isabella's eyes shone with amusement. "We are now weathered and rescued."

"Rescued-ish," Swiss corrected. "We are merely the entourage to your functional adulting. The tow truck gets the credit."

Five minutes later the landline rang for Isabella. Tow driver: here. Aether and Papa drove back with him to the lay-by to supervise the handover; Swiss, appointed quartermaster by himself, settled the bill—adding an indecent tip—and stole another mushroom for the road.

Outside, the gutters glittered. The van waited, like a dog that knows it's about to be told it's good. Aether returned with the paperwork—clean, signed, car on a truck headed home.

Swiss tossed Papa the passenger seat and slung himself into the back beside Isabella, who'd bundled into her coat again. "So," he stage-whispered as the van rumbled into gear, "How was the middle of nowhere?"

"Cold" Isabella chuckled, leaning her shoulder into Papa's. "It gave us a room."

"It gave me hot water," Papa added, solemn. "I am its friend."

Aether drove like the van was full of glass and saints.

They rolled in under the old arch just as the Ministry exhaled into evening—lamps low, corridors warm, the kind of quiet that forgives lateness. Swiss and Aether peeled off toward the garage; Papa squeezed Isabella's hand and kissed her temple before heading to wash road out of his hair.

"I'll just check my desk," she said. "Two minutes."

Her office smelled like paper and something green. She flicked on the lamp and stopped.

A large bouquet—winter roses, eucalyptus, a scandal of ranunculus—sat in the center of her blotter in a heavy glass vase. Tucked in the stems, a cream card:

Grazie for saving the day.
— V

She huffed a laugh and set the card aside, equal parts touched and exasperated. The rest of the room made her blink: her desk was neater than she'd ever managed—folders squared, pens corralled, cables tamed. On top of the keyboard, a single sticky note in a hand that looked like tidy mischief:

Papa Nihil appeared last night.
Was sad to find you not here.

She pictured the old flirt materializing in an empty doorway and scowling at no one, then leaving some spectral complaint for whoever would tidy it. "Sorry, Nonno," she murmured to the air, smiling.

She lifted the bouquet to clear a space and found, beneath the vase, a second, smaller card—Swiss's neat scrawl:

She snorted, set the roses back, and turned off the lamp. In the hall, she texted two people at once:

To V: Thanks for the thank-you. Next time, keep the bleach away from the wardrobe.

To Papa: Back at my desk. Flowers, tidiness, and a complaint from a ghost. Come steal me for bed?

His reply came almost instantly, a little star: On my way.

She tucked the Nihil note into her pocket like a charm, took one last look at the room—too clean to be true—and stepped out just as footsteps approached. White grin, warm eyes, the good coat. He offered his arm.

"Anything urgent?" he asked.

"Only flowers and hauntings," she said, taking him. "And the part where I missed you."

"Perfect," he said, and walked her toward the soft corridor and the night that kept choosing them, one small mercy after another.

Chapter Text

The Ministry had gone to whispers. Her office was a small pool of dark with the desk lamp off; only the orange wash from the corridor slipped under the door and laid a thin stripe across her blotter.

Isabella sat very straight, the letter open in her hands, paper softened at the creases where her thumbs had worried it raw. She'd read it three times. Every time the line "she passed peacefully" felt like a kindness left out in the rain.

Her aunt. The woman who'd taught her how to hem a skirt and make soup from almost nothing, who'd clapped for school recitals like they were miracles, who'd said "then I'll be your mother" the day the real one didn't stay.

Tears pricked and pricked and, finally, they fell—quiet and furious. She pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth to keep the sound in.

"Bambina."

She flinched; the word was smoke and velvet. Papa Nihil slid out of the corner's shadow like a memory deciding to be useful—paint luminous in the thin light, suit immaculate, eyes bright with the soft mischief he saved for the people he loved.

He took in the room, the dark, the letter, the way she had folded herself small. His mouth tilted, not into a joke, but into gentleness. "You are making the furniture ache."

She tried to laugh and made a sound that was not a laugh at all. "Nonno, I—" Her throat closed around everything else. She held the letter up like proof and lowered it when her hand shook.

Nihil didn't come closer until she nodded. When she did, he crossed and leaned on the desk with the exaggerated care of a man who knew how to be too much and was choosing not to be. "Tell me," he said, simple.

"My aunt," Isabella managed. "She... she died. They wrote to say—" She swallowed. "She was the one who kept me. When my mother..." The hand with the letter wobbled. "She kept me."

Nihil's expression changed in that old-fashioned, courtly way he had when someone showed him a holy thing. He reached—gloved fingertips hovering by her temple, asking—and when she tipped her head a fraction, he touched her hair like blessing. "Then grieve like someone has taken down a wall," he said softly. "And remember you are still standing."

Isabella's breath broke. He stayed. He let her cry without hurry, without fixing, the old room holding the sound and then letting it go. When the worst of it ebbed, he produced, with magician's dignity, a folded handkerchief from an impossible pocket and offered it like a relic.

She laughed a little at that—ridiculous, grateful—and blew her nose like a sinner.

"I should tell him," she murmured, thumb rubbing the crease in the paper. "But he's with Swiss and Aether, and it's late, and I don't want to... pull him out of the good he's making."

"Sciocchezze," Nihil said, not unkind. "You do not pull a man from good. You bring him into yours." He considered, then added, sly and tender, "He is built to stand beside a woman who lights rooms and sometimes needs one lit for her."

She stared at the letter. "I am angry at how small the world makes this look," she admitted. "A line. 'She passed peacefully.' As if that is the whole story."

"It is the last line," he said. "Not the book." He tapped the page. "The book is soup and hems and someone clapping like an idiot because you learned a chord. The book is the night she said 'then I'll be your mother' and meant it." His voice softened to something almost human. "Make her large again. Say her name aloud. Teach someone her recipe. Wear the ring she gave you even if it turns your finger green."

Isabella smiled, wrecked, because he was right. "Her name was Rosa," she said, obedient to the ritual. "She hid money for me in the sugar canister so I could go to college and instead I became a sister of sin." she chuckled through broken tears "Eh she was proud"

Nihil's eyes warmed. "Brava, Rosa." He straightened, pretending to brush lint from his lapel to cover his own tenderness. "Light a candle for her. And let the boy hold the match."

She hesitated. "He's busy..."

Nihil cocked his head, indulgent as a cat. "He is Cardi. He is busy loving you, and then everything else." He glanced toward the door. "He will be done soon. I can haunt the hallway until he appears and say 'boo'"

That startled a honest laugh out of her. She wiped her face with the handkerchief, gentler now. "Stay while I—" She lifted her phone, thumbs hovering. "I'll text him. Can you come to my office? I need you."

"Even better," Nihil murmured.

She sent it. The message sat, unblessed by dots. She set the phone down and looked at the letter again. "I should go to the funeral," she said. "It's in two days. Back home."

"You will," Nihil said. "And you will not go alone."

Her eyes shone fresh, differently. "He has obligations..."

"Bambina." Nihil's voice softened until it might have been a breeze. "You have been the only true obligation to him since he saw you enter this church."

She sat up, wiping her cheeks, folding the letter with care, laying it in the top drawer like a sleeping thing that needed darkness. She kept one corner out, so it could breathe.

"Thank you Papa" she sobbed quietly.

The door eased open. "Isabella?" Papa stepped into the dim, voice careful—

"Boo."

He jumped a foot. One hand flew to his chest, the other smacked the doorframe. The little gasp he made would have killed lesser Sisters.

From the corner, Papa Nihil materialized fully delighted, cane tapping once for emphasis. Isabella couldn't help it—she chuckled, wet-eyed, hand against her mouth.

Nihil tipped an imaginary hat. "Mission accomplished. Scared my boy," he announced, pleased with himself. He softened one glance at Isabella, then drifted backward through the wall like a gentleman exiting a stage. "Be kind," he added to the room, and was gone.

Cardi stayed frozen, eyes wide, processing hauntings and heart rate. "He—" He pointed at the wall, then down at his shoes as if they might also be haunted. "I hate him," he lied, breathless. "I love him."

Isabella's laugh shook into a sigh. "He couldn't resist."

Cardi recovered enough to cross the room, coming down on his knees beside her chair so they were eye-level. The scare had drained the color from his face; the sight of hers—tear-bright, brave—brought it back.

"What happened?" he asked, voice low, hands hovering until she set one of hers into his.

She turned the letter so he could see the first line without having to ask. "My aunt," she said. Just that. It held all the rest.

His face changed in the exact way she needed: no panic, no platitudes—receiving. He slid closer, pressed his forehead to the back of her hand, and breathed with her once, twice.

"I'm here," he said. "Tell me everything. And if you can't yet, let me just—be here."

He didn't ask her to be brave. He asked, "Hot chocolate or tea?" and when she said "hot chocolate," he made it like a ritual—milk in a pan, cocoa sifted neat, two mugs warmed with a rinse of hot water because he said it made a difference. He carried the tray to the bed like a priest carrying a reliquary. On it: two steaming cups, a plate of plain biscuits, a folded napkin he'd inexplicably ironed flat.

"Sit," Papa said, gentle. He tucked a blanket over her knees, settled beside her with his shoulder touching hers, and didn't look at the clock or at his phone. The room was small, warm, kind. She stared at the cocoa until the steam softened her eyes enough to speak.

"My mother wasn't nice," she began, and the sentence felt like stepping onto ice that might hold. "She was cruel in little ways. She yelled when I was quiet. She laughed when I cried. She use to hit me and hurt me. She broke things I loved, then told me I was silly for loving them."

He didn't flinch. He didn't say he was sorry yet. He kept his body soft and still, hand resting open between them on the blanket.

"She would leave me... a lot," Isabella said, looking at the window because the glass could handle it. "Late at night. No explanation. Sometimes she came back the same night. Sometimes the next morning. Once it was two days. I learned how to eat less so the food lasted. How to be very quiet so the neighbors wouldn't notice."

She took a sip; the chocolate tasted like something she almost remembered from a different life. "Then one day she left and didn't come back. I was seven. I moved from chair to chair with the sun. I made a list of things to do like I'd seen on television: make bed. read book. be good."

Her voice stayed even by force. "The first night I slept on the rug under the table because it felt like a fort. The second day I tried to make bread with flour and water because I thought that's all it was—she always made it look easy. It turned into glue. I ate glue and pretended it was bread. I was very proud. The third day I stopped pretending. The fourth night I decided if I didn't cry she would come back, because crying made things worse. So I put my face in the couch cushion and made the crying quiet. The fifth day the electricity clicked off and the red numbers went dark, and I thought the world had ended, and I laughed a little because it felt stupid for the world to end because I couldn't keep time right."

Her hand had found his while she spoke; somewhere between bread and glue he had threaded his fingers with hers. He hadn't said a word. He was breathing with her: slow in, slow out, like a metronome set to mercy.

"The neighbor finally heard me," she said. "I was singing. She knocked. I hid. The police came. Their shoes were so loud. They said my name. One of them had a kind face and a stain on his tie, and I liked him for having a stain. They asked where my mother was. I said she was at the shop, and then I said maybe she was a boat. I don't know why. I was very tired."

Isabella blinked, the edges of the world going watery and then steadier. "They called my aunt. I didn't know I had one. Rosa. She showed up. She smelled like soap and onions. She put her coat around me even though it was June. She told the officer 'I'm her mother' and didn't look at me like it was a question. I decided I would believe her."

Her shoulders finally dropped. The telling had cost her something and given something back. She set the mug down on the tray with care like it might spill the past if she didn't. "Rosa was so kind. So perfect. She taught me to hem skirts and say no with a smile. She clapped for the worst drawings. When anyone asked, she said, 'She's mine.' And now—" her voice thinned "—the letter says 'she passed peacefully,' which is so small for such a big person."

Papa slid his other hand over their joined ones, covering them like a lid over something precious. He didn't offer platitudes. When he spoke, he did it like placing stones to build a wall that could hold.

"I hate what happened to you," he said, simple and exact. "I hate that someone taught a child to be small. I hate that your hunger was ever a game you had to learn to win." He swallowed, breath shaking once. "And I love Rosa with my whole stupid heart—for showing up. For saying 'I'm her mother' and making it true."

He lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "You are not small now. You know that. But I am saying it anyway because the seven-year-old needs to hear it, not just the woman. You are not a thing that can be 'taken.' You are a person who is chosen. I choose you. Every day. In traffic and in rain and in rooms where you can cry."

She made a sound that was almost a laugh. He reached for the biscuits, broke one, handed her half. "Eat," he said, smiling at the absurdity and the holiness of a biscuit. "Because she would tell you to. And because the child who ate glue deserves better."

Isabella took it and took a bite because obedience can be love. The biscuit turned to sweetness and crumb on her tongue. The hot chocolate was warm again. The room felt like a place that could hold two people and a past without splitting at the seams.

"Will you come to the funeral?" she asked, small and brave at once.

"Yes," he said, like a vow. "I'll book a driver in the morning. We'll go early. We will sit where you want. If you want to speak, I will stand behind you and be your wall. If you don't, I'll hold your hand and be silent with you. After, we will eat soup in her honor."

She laughed, tears and joy braided. "She cheated at cards," she said again, needing to say the good things twice. "She said, 'Cheat better or don't play.'"

"She would hate my poker face," he admitted. "We'll bring a deck. We'll let her win."

He stood to move, not away, but to the small desk. He took a stub of a candle from a drawer—he kept them there for nights when rooms needed them—and set it on a saucer. He found matches, struck one, paused. "Say her name," he asked, gentle.

"Rosa," Isabella said, voice strong.

He lit the wick. Flame found wick; light found the corners. He set the candle on the dresser, then came back and kissed her hair, her temple, the soft corner of her mouth—a benediction in three parts.

"Hold me Papa" she murmured.

"Of course" he said, pulling the blanket up over them both. "I am your wall. I am your very soft, very warm, occasionally crumbling wall."

She snorted softly into his collarbone, and he felt the sound before he heard it. He stroked slow circles at her shoulder until her breath levelled.

They fell asleep like that—her weight a trust against his chest, his hands steady as promises, the little candle making a new red number on the wall that told a kinder time. In the morning, there would be calls and trains and a small church and the work of saying goodbye. Tonight there was a room, a blanket, a wall, and the knowledge that the child who had been alone was not alone anymore, and never would be, not while he had breath and hands and matches.

Chapter Text

Papa knocked once and leaned into her doorway with a legal pad under his arm and a pen behind his ear—administrative war paint.

"Where is the church?" he asked. "City, province—give me something I can bully a map with."

Isabella looked up from her inbox. "Italy."

He paused, side-eyed her over the top of the pad. "You lived in Italy and you cannot speak it?"

She huffed a laugh despite herself. "She moved there years ago—when I came here," she said. "We wrote, we called. I visited a few times. But my Italian is... well you know

He slipped into the room, closed the door with his foot, and softened. "Where exactly?"

"Cervia," she said. "Little church near the canal. The letter has the address." She slid it over; he read fast, nodding, mouth a small line of focus.

"Okay," he murmured, already in motion. "Rimini airport is closest, but Bologna is easier. We fly into Bologna tomorrow morning, hire a car, drive the hour to Cervia. We book the hotel tonight—two rooms, one night, maybe two in case we need to stay for everyone's stories. I will call Father Tomaso—" he tapped the name on the letter "—and tell him we are coming and ask if there is anything that needs carrying. I will pack an extra tie because Italians have opinions."

She smiled, watery. "They do."

He reached for her hand, squeezed once. "Passport?"

"In my desk," she said, already opening the drawer and fishing out the envelope. "Black dress is clean. Shoes are... fine."

"Good," he said. "I will put together a small bag for you in case your definition of fine angers a cobblestone." The side-eye softened into fondness. "And I will print a tiny cheat sheet of phrases for your pocket. You will not need it because I will point at things and make verbs behave, but it will make your aunt's neighbors feel seen."

"She'd like that," Isabella said, thumb running the edge of the passport. "She adored being local."

He jotted tidy bullet points on the pad. "Flights, car, hotel, priest, flowers." He looked up. "What flowers?"

"She loved sunflowers," Isabella said, then glanced at the winter outside and winced. "But in November that's... ambitious."

"Then we bring rosemary and laurel," he said at once. "Memory and honor. And if I see a sunflower at a shop window, I will scandalize the florist with my devotion."

She laughed, surprised and grateful. "Deal."

He tapped the pad against the desk, administrative spell complete. "I will book it all in the next ten minutes. You will send an email to whoever: Family funeral, back in two to three days."

She nodded, exhaling. "Thank you."

He bent to kiss her hair, then paused an inch above. "May I?" At her nod, he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. "Now—pack a sweater. The sea wind in November thinks it is funny."

He turned to the door, then glanced back with the smallest grin. "And for the record, you can say Cervia perfectly. So your Italian is already better than mine was at ten." he said winking at her.

She threw a paperclip at him. He dodged it with theatrical grace and slipped out, pen already in hand, the sound of him on the phone in the hall a bright stream of pronto, buongiorno, sì—due camere, per favore, and for the first time since the letter arrived, the future felt like something they could carry.

They left within a few hours, the terminal smelled like coffee and raincoats. November light pooled on the tiles; departure boards clicked their little prayers.

Papa had the passports and that focused face he wore when he was doing logistics as love.

They didn't even make it to the rope line before Swiss and Aether materialized, somehow both blending and being impossible to miss. Swiss swept in first, scarf and grin, hands out.

"Last hugs," he declared, and gathered Isabella up. He kissed one cheek, then the other, extra loud on the second just to make her laugh. "Text me the minute you land. And send me a photo of a brick or a church or both."

Aether waited his turn, softer. He took her by the shoulders and pressed a warm kiss to her temple—no commentary, just there. When he stepped back he slipped a foil-wrapped sweet into her palm. "For descent," he said, like a prescription.

"Thank you," she murmured, touched and steadier.

Swiss hooked an arm briefly around Papa's neck, pulling him into a sideways half-hug only Swiss could get away with. "Take care of our girl," he said, mock-serious, then to Isabella: "Take care of our capo. He gets lost in duty and needs snacks."

"Both true," Aether said, offering a hand to Papa. Their shake was brief and grounding.

"You guys forget i've been watching Cardi for...too long now" she said with a proud smile. Swiss rolled his eyes heavenward. Isabella smiled at both of them, eyes already shining. "Thank you for holding the fort."

"We'll hold the whole fortress," Swiss said, then tucked the tips of the rosemary into her tote so they wouldn't bruise. "Go. Before I get teary."

Papa touched his fingers to Swiss's shoulder, then Aether's. "Grazie," he said simply. "We'll be back soon."

They took three steps toward the check-in and Swiss called, "Hey!"—then jogged the two paces back to kiss Isabella's other cheek again, softer. "From me—and from all the idiots who love you."

"Love you all, with my whole heart" she said, laughing holding back her tears.

At the rope line, Papa slid an arm around her waist and pressed a small kiss to her hair. "Ready?"

"Ready," she exhaled.

Bologna met them with wet cobbles and a sky the color of pewter. The sliding doors sighed open and Italy rushed in—espresso and rain, chatter layered like music, a chorus of prego, prego from somewhere near arrivals.

They stepped out beneath the awning and watched the world do its glittering trick. Rain stitched silver lines between streetlamps; puddles held little cities of upside-down light. Taxis nosed in, yellow signs glowing like patient fireflies. Somewhere a church bell counted the hour and made the drizzle feel theatrical.

"Benvenuti," Papa murmured, squeezing Isabella's hand. His hair caught a few brave drops.

Driving out, the wipers kept time while the ring road circled the city in a shimmer. Bologna's porticoes slid past—long, lit tunnels, people moving under them like notes along a staff. Red roofs, damp brick, the brief flash of a trattoria window where everyone looked warmer than physics should allow.

They left the city and the road opened toward the sea. Fields sat glossy and dark; farmhouse windows glowed like low constellations. In the distance, a string of orange lamps traced the line of a canal, turning raindrops into sequins.

"Almost there," he said, voice soft to match the night.

"Almost," she echoed, face turned to the glass. The rain made lace of everything it touched—signs, hedges, the little bridges. It felt like a benediction that knew how to mind its manners.

Cervia announced itself with salt in the air and lights strung like a festival over the water. The canal was a long mirror for lanterns; fishing boats sat shoulder to shoulder, their masts feathered with droplets that sparkled when the wind moved. The November rain softened the edges, made strangers into silhouettes, turned the town into a postcard someone had actually touched.

Their hotel was small and kind, the lobby was all lemon polish and warm lamps, the sort of place that believes in umbrellas and secrets. A sleepy receptionist looked up as they came in damp from the rain—Isabella with the tote of rosemary and laurel cradled like flowers, Papa carrying both suitcases like he was auditioning for "competent fiancé."

"Buonasera!" the receptionist sang, eyes flicking to the reservation. Then her whole face lit. "Ah—auguri! Congratulations!"

Both of them blinked.

"Grazie?" Papa tried, polite but puzzled. "Why are we being congratulated?"

"You booked it all Papa how would I know?" Isabella chuckled lowly.

A bellhop appeared from nowhere with the speed and certainty of a plot twist, already reaching for their bags. "Honeymoon, sì? We put prosecco on ice!"

Isabella's eyebrows climbed. She cut her eyes at Papa. He looked at the desk screen, then at the receptionist's shy smile, then back at Isabella with a very specific what did I do face.

The receptionist turned the little leather book for them to see. In tidy italics: SUITE LUNA DI MIELE — 2 notti.

"Oh no," Isabella whispered, laughing despite the day. "What did you book?"

"I booked the nicest thing they had," he murmured, mortified and secretly pleased. "I did not realize the nicest thing was...."

"Auguri!" called someone from the breakfast room, caught up in the contagion of romance. The receptionist added, "We will bring chocolate strawberries," as if that were one of the Ten Commandments.

Isabella put a hand over her mouth to smother a giggle. Rain still sparkled on her lashes. She leaned closer to the desk, conspiratorial. "We are here for a family funeral," she said gently. "But also we are... very fond of each other. So—thank you. We will accept your joy and your strawberries."

The receptionist softened, hand to heart. "Mi dispiace," she said, compassion folding neatly into the brightness. Then, with a wink that managed to be both respectful and delighted.

The bellhop whisked them into a tiny elevator with old brass buttons that looked like coins. "You are very lucky," he confided, grave as a priest. "Suite has the big bathtub and the view."

The Luna di Miele opened on a sigh of warm air and a view that stole any protest they might have prepared—wide windows over the canal, strings of lights doubled in the water, rain making sequins of every drop. A big bed. An absurd number of pillows. A basket on the table with a card that read Felicitazioni! and—true to prophecy—prosecco cuddling strawberries under a napkin like conspirators.

They stood just inside the door for a beat, luggage at their ankles, the day catching up.

"I can fix this," Papa offered, already turning as if to run back down and wrestle the reservation into something less narrative.

Isabella caught his sleeve, tugging him gently back. "Don't you dare." Her smile tilted, tender and tired. "We will sleep; we will grieve; we will be held by whatever kindness the world hands us. Tonight, it's an accidental honeymoon and a bathtub with a view."

He deflated into relief, then into fondness. "You are very wise."

"I am very wet," she corrected, kicking off her shoes. "And very in need of strawberries."

A soft knock. The receptionist herself arrived with two flutes and a smaller tray—two steaming tazze of herbal tea. "To warm first," she said, understanding everything and pushing nothing. "If you want bubbles later, they will wait."

"Grazie," Papa said, and meant it like a blessing. Isabella added a quiet "thank you" in English and Italian both, and the woman's smile turned into the kind that belongs to people who like their jobs because they get to be human.

When the door clicked shut, he set the tea on the low table, then turned to Isabella, hand at the back of his neck, sheepish. "I wanted to make it easy," he admitted. "I may have... overcorrected."

She stepped into him, arms around his waist, cheek to his chest so she could hear the steady beat that had steadied her all day. "You made it kind," she said into his shirt. "That's better."

They drank tea first, hands wrapped around the cups while the rain played castanets on the glass. The canal blinked and breathed outside. A boat nudged another boat like a sleepy cat.

They climbed onto the absurd bed and lay on top of the duvet, shoes off, shoulders touching. He kissed her hairline. She laughed, soft and tired and alive.

"Accidental honeymoon," she said, looking at the lights dancing on the ceiling.

"Correctly timed kindness," he answered, kissing the corner of her mouth.

Steam curled off the water in lazy ribbons, candlelight turning the tiled room to honey. Isabella sank deeper into the big tub, bubbles piling like clouds under her chin, a cool champagne flute resting on the ledge. Somewhere in the suite, a little radio spun an old song soft enough to sound like memory.

She laid a warm flannel over her eyes and exhaled for the first time all day, a small hum escaping without permission. The ache in her shoulders sighed. The candles flickered; rain ticked at the window like a polite guest.

At the doorway, Papa paused—tie off, sleeves rolled, the most useless towel in the world in his hands as if that might justify him being there. He had only meant to check on her. But then he saw her: bubbles to the collarbone, hair pinned up in a quick twist with a few rebellious curls escaping, face relaxed in a way he almost never got to witness.

He did not breathe for a second. Then he remembered how, and it was exactly that breath that gave him away.

"Papa," Isabella said, smiling without moving, "I can hear you breathing."

Caught, he laughed—soft, sheepish. "Mi dispiace. I was... checking the candles. And also forgetting how to be cool."

She lifted the flannel, eyes bright under the candlelight, and sat up a little. The bubbles obligingly kept their conspiracy, covering exactly what modesty asked. "Come say hello then," she teased, tipping her chin toward him.

He stepped closer, still at a respectful angle, and set the useless towel on the edge like an offering. "Isabella," he said, honest as a vow, "you look beautiful in candlelight."

Her mouth curved.

He huffed a grin and knelt to her level, elbows on the tub's wide rim. Up close, her skin glowed warm; the scent of rosemary from the sill braided with vanilla soap and steam. He reached—slow, visible—and adjusted a candle a little farther from the curtain because duty never sleeps.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"For the first time all day," she said.

"Good," he murmured, brushing a stray curl back from her temple with careful fingers. "May I?" He tapped the cool flute.

"Please," she said, passing it. He set it back in her hand after a small ceremonial sip, then dipped the cloth in warm water, wrung it out, and laid it back over her eyes with a tenderness that made her chest tight.

"Will you stay and keep me company while I turn into a raisin?"

"Of course"

He settled on the bath mat, back to the wall, one hand resting lightly on the porcelain near her wrist.

He let the quiet do the rest. The song on the radio wandered to something slow; the rain kept its small beat. After a while she opened her eyes and studied him—the way the candlelight carved his cheekbones gentler, the steady patience in his mouth. "Thank you," she said.

He leaned in and kissed her damp forehead, then the tip of her nose, then the safe corner of her mouth, all feather-light. "Always," he said. "When you are ready, I will hand you a towel like a gentleman and pretend I did not almost fall over at the door."

She smirked. "You almost fell over?"

"I did," he confessed. "And then I remembered to breathe."

"Keep doing that," she said, sinking back into the bubbles, smile lazy, eyes soft. "It's nice to listen to."

He stayed until the water went from perfect to merely lovely. When she finally reached for the towel, he stood and held it open, wrapping her in warm cotton and a kiss to the crown of her head—no rush, no show, just the ordinary grace of a night that had decided to be kind.

The rain had softened to a hush that turned the canal into a long ribbon of light. From the balcony of their suite, Isabella leaned on the iron rail and let Italy breathe around her—salt in the November air, lanterns doubled in the water, boats creaking like contented cats. Somewhere, cutlery sang in a late kitchen. A bicycle bell chimed and was gone.

She closed her eyes and just listened.

The door behind her slid open with a low whisper. A draft of warm room air followed Papa out—vanilla soap, candle, the faintest ghost of rosemary. He didn't speak. He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, fitting himself to the curve of her back like something he'd practiced all his life.

His lips found her bare shoulder—one kiss, then another just above the last, slow and reverent. She exhaled, a sound that was half a laugh, half relief, and let her head tip back to his shoulder, the crown of it brushing his jaw.

"Ciao, bella," he murmured against her skin.

"Hi," she said, smiling into the rain. "You hear it? It sounds like the whole town is shushing us kindly."

He nodded against her temple. "Italy is polite even when it falls from the sky."

They stood like that—her hands on his forearms, his thumbs drawing small, unconscious circles where her dress met her skin—watching the strings of lights throw their reflections and catch them again. The church bell marked the hour, soft and round. He kissed her shoulder once more, then the curve where neck becomes collarbone, and felt her shiver in the good way.

She turned in his arms, sliding her hands up to hook behind his neck. Candlelight from the room spilled onto them, turning the wet world gold at the edges. Up close, his eyes were gentler than any lamp. "Thank you for coming with me" she said. "For making the hard thing feel... held."

He brushed a damp curl from her cheek. "You make every place a place worth standing still," he said simply.

She rose on her toes and kissed him—unhurried, a promise whispered into his mouth. When they parted, she rested her forehead to his. The rain went on approvingly.

"Stay out here a little longer?" she asked.

"As long as you want," he answered, tightening his hold the smallest bit. "We can memorize this noise."

They did: two silhouettes on a balcony over a shining canal, learning the sound of a country in the rain and the feel of being exactly where they were supposed to be—together, quiet, and very, very alive.

Chapter Text

Cervia’s little church was full before the hour. The rain had turned gentle, beading on black coats and making the stone steps shine. Inside, candles steadied the November light; rosemary and laurel threaded the air with their clean, old scent.

Isabella slipped the small bouquet they’d brought into the basket near the altar—rosemary for remembrance, laurel for honor—and touched the ribbon with her thumb. Papa stood a pace behind, present without crowding, his hand a quiet weight at the small of her back when she needed to feel it.

Father Tomaso greeted them with a warm, lined face and hands that smelled faintly of incense and newsprint. “Benvenuti. La famiglia di Rosa?” he asked kindly. When Isabella nodded, his eyes softened further. “Era amata. She was loved.”

Church bells counted ten; people settled. Cousins she’d only ever known by voices in a handset took her hand, kissed her cheeks. Neighbors—her aunt’s neighbors—told her with their eyes they were here to hold some of the weight.

They had just found a pew midway up the nave when the air changed—a small ripple at the door, a murmured oh from the front row. Isabella turned because her bones told her to.

Her mother stood in the aisle, rain slicking her hair into cruel lines, mouth tight with a familiar disdain that arrived in the room like cold.

For half a heartbeat Isabella froze. She had built a life in which this woman was a story you outgrew, a ghost you learned not to feed. Now the ghost had a body and a wet coat and a gaze that went straight to the inverted cross at Isabella’s throat.

The mouth curved. Not a smile.

“I always knew you were the devil’s child,” her mother said—not loud, but with that cutting clarity that makes other sounds get out of the way.

Silence snicked into place around them. Somebody’s rosary stopped moving mid-prayer. The rain outside leaned in at the windows.

Papa’s hand found Isabella’s wrist—here—and tightened once, then loosened. She felt the muscle jump in his jaw where he was biting his lip, swallowing everything his body wanted to say in the place where you are supposed to say other things.

Isabella stood—not because the woman deserved the energy, but because Rosa did. She lifted her chin a fraction and took a breath that belonged to the grown woman, not the child who used to count survival by oven-clock red numbers.

“My aunt is being buried today,” she said, steady. “She was the best person I have ever known. If you have something kind to say about her, you can stay. If not, you can leave.”

Her mother’s eyes flicked to Papa, to his black suit, the way he stood at Isabella’s shoulder and didn’t flinch. Something like contempt and curiosity tangled. “Of course,” she murmured, gaze sliding back. “You brought a priest.”

“A man,” Isabella said, too tired to explain and too dignified to offer more. “Who loves me. Who is here to sit and hold my hand.”

Father Tomaso was already on his way down the aisle, a small man with a spine of brass. “Signora,” he said, polite as a blade. “Oggi parliamo di Rosa. Today we speak of Rosa.” He angled a hand toward the back pews. “There is room there. You are welcome to sit and pray.”

Her mother’s mouth opened, then closed. She gave the tiniest huff of a laugh, pushed a damp curl behind her ear, and slid into the last pew with the kind of posture that insists it is unseated only by choice.

Isabella let the breath go. Papa didn’t speak—he pressed his cheek to her temple for one second, then stepped with her into the pew and let her choose how close to sit. She slid tight to him, and the church exhaled with her.

The Mass did what it knows how to do. Names were said. A neighbor read from Wisdom. Someone sang off-key and was beautiful for it. When the time came, Isabella stood and said her aunt’s name loudly enough to paint the air with it, then told one small story—the sugar canister, the hidden coins—and the whole room laughed softly, because they knew her too.

At the graveside, the rain decided to be respectful—just mist. Umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers; Father Tomaso’s Latin rose and fell like tide. Isabella placed rosemary on the wood and whispered “thank you” to grain and rope and earth. On the edge of her vision, the last pew woman hovered like a bad habit.

She turned toward Papa, because that was the direction the rest of her life went, and found him already meeting her with that face he only wore for her—open and careful all at once. “Do you want to go?” he asked low. “Or speak to her? Or never again?”

She thought of Rosa, of wrong singing and cards and soup. She thought of the seven-year-old in a room with red numbers and glue bread, and of the woman who had become a wall for that child.

“I want to go to the canal and eat soup and laugh at a story she would have liked,” Isabella said.

“Then that is what we will do,” he said. “And if she says your name as an insult again, I will let Father Tomaso do the smiting.”

That pulled a real smile from her. They turned, offering hands to cousins, pausing to kiss the cheeks of neighbors who had grown used to seeing her as Rosa’s girl.

Halfway down the path, a voice—sharp, familiar—came from behind. “Isabella.”

The graveside emptied like a tide going out—umbrellas folding, murmurs thinning, Father Tomaso’s voice settling back into the chapel. Isabella and Papa took the path to the gate slow, hands still joined, rosemary damp in her palm from where she’d laid it on the wood.

That’s when a hand caught her sleeve—pinched fabric and skin together hard enough to find old nerves.

Her mother.

“Not so fast,” the woman said, rain drawing cruel lines through her hair. “You drag that trinket into a church and think no one sees?” Her mother leaned close; Isabella could smell stale smoke under the rain. “Rosa made you soft.” Her eyes flicked to Papa standing a pace back, his shoulders set, his jaw working once. “And you brought a priest to kiss your hands and call it love.”

“Enough,” Papa said—low, even, the vowel weight of someone who knows what fury can do and isn’t going to let it. He moved between—not shoving, but interposing—and the rain jeweled his lashes like he was blinking back weather.

The woman ignored him. “Ungrateful little—” She swallowed a word and found a sharper one.

Isabella stared at her, then past her, then through her. Something old slipped, and something new took its place. “I was seven,” she said, and the number stood up like a witness. “You left.”

The woman’s face shifted—half a second of blank where the script should be. Then the mask clicked back. “I should have gotten rid of you.” she said softly, as if stating physics.

“And instead you gave me a better mother.” Isabella answered. Her voice wobbled and she barred it with a swallow. “Let me go.”

Fabric slid out from fingers. Air found Isabella’s lungs as if oxygen had been off and someone had turned it back on.

“Run,” her mother said, almost conversational. “It’s what you do.”

The blade slipped under the armor—you can weld new plates and still recognize the cut. Isabella’s vision blurred; the world smeared into wet stone and black coats and the shine of laurel leaves.

“Stop,” Papa said to the woman, and now the word had an edge. “Grief is no excuse for cruelty.”

Her mother huffed a laugh—small and poisonous—and turned toward the last pew as if she’d always meant to. Father Tomaso stepped into her line of sight, chin lifted, and indicated the back row with gentle iron. The woman obeyed because you obey old men who have buried more people than you’ve cursed.

Isabella didn’t wait to see it. She nodded at the priest—thank you—and at Papa—I’m okay—and stepped away because distance was the only thing her hands trusted.

Three paces. Ten. The iron gate. Rain. Not the car—it would be a fight to get there past the people, past the past. Her feet wanted movement not arrival; she gave them movement. She took the narrow side path along the cemetery wall, then the little lane that skirted the canal. The lights doubled themselves; the water wore them like jewels and didn’t care.

She didn’t run. Running felt like answering the insult. She walked with stubborn, measured steps that said no with each heel strike. Houses gave way to hedges. The strings of fairy lights thinned. The rain got businesslike.

Behind her, Papa’s voice threaded the weather: “Isabella—amore—wait.” It was not a command. It was a request from someone who already had a coat off. Then softer, angled back toward the gate: “Leave her,” to the woman. “Spend your mercy in silence.” And then his steps—measured, fast—took the same path she had.

She kept going. Left at a low wall. Right toward a lane that looked like it knew things. Past a shuttered café with its chairs stacked like rib cages. The canal kinked into a side cut, the lamps went farther apart, the night pulled its hood up. A scooter hissed by and left the smell of rain and petrol.

Isabella tried her phone. Two bars. One. None. The map spun like a child’s toy and gave up. She put it away because a dead thing in your hand is only a weight.

A barking dog announced her to no one and curled back under a tarp. She crossed a little bridge and realized immediately it was the wrong one; the water on the other side was a runnel, not the main line, choked with reeds where frogs ticked like broken clocks.

The wet climbed her calves. The gruifix ticked once against her sternum. She took it between finger and thumb and pressed, and heard Rosa say, in that onion-and-soap voice: When the world is loud, do the next small, right thing.

“Okay,” Isabella said to the dark. “Downhill goes to water. Water goes to town.”

Downhill brought her to a field. The path she thought was a path was simply the place where other feet had made the grass give up. The fence ahead was chain-link with a gate that had learned to rust. It wasn’t locked; she wasn’t trespassing, not exactly. She slid through and immediately regretted it as mud welcomed her shoes like a cousin with bad manners.

She stopped and laughed once—short, unkind, at herself, at Italy, at the weather for being exactly the cliché it had promised to be. The laugh helped; it shook the old sentences loose by a degree.

Left again, because going back is a shape you save for better nights. A yard where a boat sat upside down, blue paint peeled in white moons. A porch light flicked on, thought better of it, went dark. The rain leashed itself; the drops came bigger, slower, as if reconsidering.

Far off to her right, a church bell counted the quarter hour. It sounded like cutlery in a kitchen where someone who loved you was setting a table. It sounded like Rosa.

She kept on. The road tilted toward a line of black plane trees. Beyond them, she saw water again and—thank God—lamps, a proper run of lights with the kind of municipal stubbornness that says: you cannot get lost here because here is where we keep our boats and our stories.

She reached the plane trees and found a towpath, narrow but true, running back toward town. The rain had slacked to a silver mist that made the lamps throw halos. Under one of them, she stopped. The adrenaline emptied out and left the trembling that often follows courage.

She leaned her shoulder against the cold trunk and let herself breathe. In for four. Out for six. She had learned it somewhere stupid—a pamphlet, a doctor’s waiting room, a YouTube voice with more kindness than authority—and she used it because it worked. The panic’s teeth let go.

“Isabella.”

This time the voice was not behind her and not an insult. It came from ahead, a little left, on the towpath where the mist had made ghosts out of anyone who wasn’t committed to being real. She squinted through the halos.

A shape moved under the next lamp—Papa, coat unbuttoned, hair wet, hands open to show he held nothing but her name. He did not run the last few paces, because running at someone you love in the dark is often the wrong verb. He walked—fast, sure—and stopped an arm’s length away so she could say yes.

She did. She stepped in and let him wrap his coat around both of them. The wool smelled like rain and heat and him. He pressed his mouth to her hair, then her temple, then did nothing else for a full breath because sometimes the most loving act is not to speak.

When he did, it was a sentence built like a handrail. “You did not run,” he said, naming the victory so the child in her could hear it. “You walked. You did the next small, right thing.”

“I got lost,” she said into his chest, honesty the only currency she had left.

“And then you got found,” he answered.

She breathed, steadier. The mist latched itself to her lashes and pretended to be tears so that the world would be polite about the real ones.

He leaned back enough to see her face, hands still on her shoulders but softened to a hold, not a grip. “Do you want to go back to the hotel along the water?” he asked. “It is longer and kinder. Or to a bar—sit where it is warm and loud and ask two old men to lie about Rosa until we laugh. Or we can stand here until the rain gets bored.”

“Water,” she said. “Please.”

“Water it is.”

They walked, hip to hip under one coat, towpath giving them a sentence to follow. He didn’t ask her to recount. He didn’t feed the bad voice by naming it again. Instead, he offered small human markers like stepping stones: “This bridge is the one with the broken light,” and “That boat is called Giulia”

Past the second bridge, the canal widened and the town put its lights back on like a necklace it had forgotten it owned. The hotel showed itself two bends later, small and stubborn, lobby lamp still burning because someone had remembered to be kind tonight.

He kissed her forehead, then tilted his own to rest against it. “You did well today princess. Tonight, I will dry your feet and feed you cake.”

They went inside. The receptionist on night shift looked up, read the damp and the eyes, and simply slid a towel across the counter and said, “There is torta della nonna left from supper. Two slices?”

“Please,” Papa said, and the word was a thank-you to a country for knowing what to do with grief at eleven at night.

In the suite, he set her on the bed, knelt to unbuckle her wet shoes as if it were church. He rubbed her feet with the towel until color returned. He swapped her socks for his—ridiculous, too big, perfect. He pulled his spare sweater over her head and told her she looked like a pirate who had joined a monastery. She smiled into the wool.

They ate cake sitting cross-legged on the duvet while the rain did its soft, old work on the glass. He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He said, “You were brave.” He said, “You were kind.” He said, “She does not get to write your story. Rosa and you do.”

When the plates were empty and the room had learned their names again, he asked, “Sleep here?” as if he hadn’t already laid his coat over her shoulders and made a wall out of his arms.

“Yes,” she said, and lay on his chest and let his breath be the sound that replaced the bell.

Outside, the town drained the day into the canal and polished what was left. Inside, two people learned, again, how to walk out of a graveyard and not lose themselves on the way home.

Chapter Text

Isabella woke to rain like a lullaby and a bed that had remembered how to be kind. The suite was soft with November light; the balcony door was cracked just enough to let the canal breathe in and out.

The other side of the bed was warm but empty. On the pillow: a folded card in Papa's tidy hand.

Amore,
Don't panic. I went to bully logistics and kiss the receptionist for mercy.
I've booked us two extra days here. Everything at home is sorted—Swiss and Aether have the fort, the studio, and the lasers (disciplined).
Please rest. Breakfast is downstairs under your name. At 11:00, I've booked you into the spa—massage, steam, someone bossier than me will tell your shoulders to behave.
I'll meet you at 7:30 for dinner. Bring your smile and your appetite.
— C.
P.S. Rosemary for the water this afternoon if you want. No rush. No musts.

She smiled without meaning to, pressed the note to her sternum for a second, then set it on the nightstand like a small flag of reprieve. The suite felt like a held breath that had decided to exhale.

She showered hot and unhurried, pulled on a dress that didn't ask questions, tucked the rosemary and laurel into the tote, and padded downstairs.

Breakfast lived in a room that believed in morning—warm lamps, a window over the canal, coffee that smelt like competence. The hostess greeted her by name and conspiratorial smile. "Buongiorno, Signorina. He said to feed you properly."

"I am tragically obedient," Isabella confessed, accepting a little table by the window. The rain had thinned to a hush. Fishing boats nodded like old men agreeing with each other.

She ate like Rosa would have wanted: eggs with reckless bread, a slice of torta della nonna because grief and joy both love custard, fruit that tasted like September. The coffee arrived strong and kind. She texted a photo of the canal to Papawith a heart and a "stop being perfect," then, on impulse, one to Swiss—Still alive. Being fed. Tell Aether he's not allowed to alphabetize my inbox. The reply came back immediately:

Swiss: Enjoy. Spa like a Roman. I forbid guilt.

Aether: Inbox untouched. Plants watered. Cake later.

At 11:00, the spa welcomed her with that hushed confidence only tile and warm air can generate. The attendant had a face like a calm ocean and a voice that made tense parts give up on their plans.

"Isabella?" she confirmed, eyes flicking to the reservation screen and softening. "Benvenuta. Steam, scrub, and a massage. We'll take the day out of your shoulders."

She was ushered into warmth—steam room, eucalyptus breathing its little sermon. Sweat carried out a weight she hadn't named. In the hammam, warm water and a soft scrub turned the edges of her grief from shard to pebble. She lay face-down on a heated stone and let someone else have the job of keeping track of time.

The massage was slow and respectful—the kind that asks and then keeps its promises. When the therapist found the fist under her right shoulder blade, Isabella breathed and said "there," and the fist listened. The room smelled faintly of orange blossom. When she turned over, the ceiling drifted in and out of focus until there was only breath, and the shape of a hand on her wrist reminding her that bodies can be a kind place to live.

After, she sat in a robe by a window in the little relaxation lounge with a cup of chamomile and honey. The canal carried a wreath of leaves past like a crown that had decided to go for a swim. She texted:

Isabella: Spa achieved.

Papa: Perfect. Meet me at 7:30 Cinderella.

She padded back to the room in her own time, skin warm, hair a soft halo from the steam. The rain flirted with stopping; the sky let a few shy coins of sun through. She stood on the balcony and breathed the salt-sweet air until the quiet felt earned, then found the little card on the desk—Dinner: Trattoria del Porto, 7:30—and a tiny map Papa had drawn with an arrow and a heart like he trusted her to get lost only on purpose now.

At four, she took the rosemary down to the canal. No audience. She tied the sprig with a bit of laurel and her hair ribbon and set it on the water with both hands. "Grazie, Rosa," she said. The little raft spun once and chose the slower current like a wise thing. She watched until it turned into a green thought and was gone.

On the walk back, she bought a small paper cone of roasted chestnuts from a cart and ate them too hot, blowing and laughing, fingers sweet with smoke. A child watching from a doorway imitated her exactly; she made a face and the child squeaked. The day had manners again.

Isabella padded back to the suite. She opened the door—and stopped.

On the bed, a red dress lay like a secret told aloud. Not scarlet shouting, but a deep, ripe red that looked born for candlelight. Beside it: a pair of heels—sleek, not cruel—and a small velvet box with earrings like drops of pomegranate. On the pillow, a folded card in Cardi’s hand.

Please wear this tonight, my love.
The color makes your eyes pop… and my heart forget its lines.
— C.

She smiled so hard her cheeks ached. Fingers careful, she lifted the dress: silk with a gentle weight, a neckline that promised more confidence than trouble, a back that dipped just enough to invite a hand at the small of it. She held it to herself in the mirror; the red warmed her skin, turned her mouth to a secret.

She set the dress on the back of the chair and turned to the little vanity by the window. The canal threw up coins of light; rain had slackened to a mist that made everything kind. She pinned her hair half up—soft twists, a few deliberate strays—and let the rest fall in a dark wave. Makeup easy and patient: warm shadow, a flick of liner, mascara that made her lashes into punctuation. The gruifix at her throat, the pomegranate drops at her ears. A brush of rose on her mouth that the dress turned into something richer.

Then the dress. It slid over her like agreement—skimming, not clinging—hem kissing her knee, silk whispering as it found its place. The heels completed a sentence she hadn’t known she was writing. She stood a moment, palms against the dresser, practicing a breath that didn’t forget how to fill her.

A knock. Gentle, three beats. She crossed the room and opened the door.

Papa stood in the hall in a tuxedo that didn’t so much fit as confess that he was made for it—jacket cut close, white shirt crisp, bow tie perfect in that charming not-quite symmetrical way that proved he’d tied it himself. His hair behaved like good trouble; his eyes, when they found her, forgot to be casual.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t speak. The look—the shock that wasn’t surprise but delight arriving all at once—made her spine lengthen and her knees consider poetry.

“Madonna,” he breathed, then found the rest of the language. “You are… devastating.”

She tilted her head, wicked and shy. “You did say the color.”

“I undersold it,” he said, a little helpless, and then remembered his hands and what they were for. He took one of hers—warm from the room—and bowed enough to make the corridor light turn intimate. He kissed her knuckles, slow and respectful, the kind of kiss that blesses as much as it adores.

“Buonasera,” he said into her palm, and straightened with a smile that knew exactly what it was doing to the air. “May I take you to dinner?”

“You may,” she said, trying and failing not to grin. “Lead the way, signore.”

He offered his arm; she slipped hers through it. They crossed the lobby where the receptionist pretended not to clap; the door gave up a square of November evening and the soft sound of the canal breathing.

Outside, the town had been complicit.

At the curb stood a horse and carriage—a small, polished trap with lamps glowing like tame stars, wheels shining, a blanket folded neatly over the bench. The horse—a patient gray with a wise face—stamped once and tossed its mane as if to say, finally. The driver tipped his hat; the harness jingled like polite bells.

Isabella’s hand tightened on Papa’s arm—surprise, delight, a little sound that tried to be dignified and failed gloriously. He looked sideways at her, that cat-smile stealing over his mouth. “Too much?” he asked, suddenly boy-shy.

“Perfect,” she said, eyes bright. “Absolutely perfect.”

He guided her forward and the driver stepped down to lower the little stair. Papa offered a gloved hand and she placed hers in it, letting herself be lifted into the carriage like a vow. Silk whispered; the dress found its seat. He joined her, settling close without crowding, and drew the blanket lightly over their knees.

The driver clicked his tongue. The gray leaned into the traces. The lamps along the canal doubled and tripled in the water as the carriage rolled out into the glittering November night, wheels a soft music, the world briefly convinced it had been built for exactly this: a red dress, a tuxedo, rain turned to sequins, and two people about to be carried wherever romance had decided their evening would begin.

The carriage rolled to a stop beside a narrow lane where ivy climbed brick and lanterns pooled warm light on wet cobbles. At the end of the lane, tucked beneath a painted sign of a sailboat and three stars, sat Trattoria del Porto—five tables, white linen, windows fogged with laughter. Inside, a string quartet on the radio pretended to be live; the clink of glasses sounded like punctuation to a love letter.

Papa hopped down first and turned, hand outstretched. When Isabella placed her fingers in his, he didn’t just help her step down—he welcomed her to the night. The red dress caught the lamplight; the canal beyond turned it into a ribbon.

“Buonasera,” he told the hostess, and then, to Isabella, lower: “Ready to be adored by me?”

“Always” she teased, eyes bright.

At their corner table by the window—two plates, a small vase with one pale carnation, a candle working very hard—the hostess set down a wrapped bundle of green. Papa untied the twine and revealed a loose little bouquet of flowers.

“For you.” He slid one of the flowers behind her ear; the red dress made the flower look braver. “Beautiful,” he added, which he had said before but seemed determined to refine.

He was swooning on purpose tonight, and well. He poured water as if it were wine, pulled her chair with the dignity of a maître d’, and unfolded her napkin with a flourish that would have embarrassed a lesser napkin. When the waiter arrived with a half-bottle of Franciacorta and a “Auguri?” eyebrow, Papa smiled. “To a quiet night,” he said. “And to all the women who taught us how to keep the good things.”

They clinked. The bubbles were small and self-assured.

The chef sent bruschetta because the kitchen was nosy and kind: tomatoes like confetti, basil that forgave November. Papa broke a piece and offered it to her, thumb catching a runaway dice of tomato with the reflexes of a man who lived in a world where food is allowed to be joyful. She laughed, bit, and hummed approval.

“Tell me a Rosa story” he asked softly, chin in his hand, the candle painting his cheekbones gentler.

“She had a neighbor named Armando who played the accordion badly,” Isabella said, grinning. “On summer evenings he’d sit outside and she’d dance the tarantella in the kitchen by herself, shoes squeaking. She said it kept the house awake.”

Papa’s eyes warmed. “We will squeak our shoes after dinner,” he promised. “For Armando’s ghost.”

Antipasti: carpaccio glossed with lemon and pepper, sarde in saor that tasted like the sea and someone’s efficient grandmother. He watched her enjoy it and enjoyed that more. When she teased him about being incandescent in a tux, he blushed and said, “Good—then this is the correct wattage for the rest of my plan.”

“Plan?” she echoed, amused.

“A very thorough one,” he lied, badly, grinning at his lap.

Primi arrived like an aria: tagliatelle al ragù for him, tortellini in brodo for her, the kind of broth that announces competence without bragging. He twirled a forkful and fed her across the candle; she returned the favor, lifting a spoonful of silk and comfort to his mouth. “If you keep this up,” she warned, “I will marry the food here.”

“I will negotiate visitation,” he said solemnly.

They talked about everything and nothing. He told her Aether had texted a photo of Swiss wearing three pairs of reading glasses stacked like a totem and labeling cables with the zeal of a monk. She told him the spa therapist had found the exact spot where she stored every tense thought and evicted it. He reached for her hand halfway through the second course and didn’t let go—thumb tracing the little wrist motion that meant receive; she answered with a light pressure that meant I am.

Secondi, if only to be flirted with: branzino split and grilled with lemon; a small bistecca seared exactly right. They shared both without ceremony, trading bites, murmuring approvals. When the waiter suggested dessert, Papa tilted his head like a conspirator. “Do you have zuppa inglese?” The waiter lit up. “For Rosa,” Papa added, and the waiter nodded as if that explained the whole world.

Coffee came, then zuppa inglese in a glass—a rumour of liqueur, custard that apologized to no one, sponge that remembered how to be soft. They ate from the same spoon, laughing when they both aimed at the cherry.

Outside the window, the rain fell soft. Lights strung over the canal made their looping reflections, boats nudged each other like gossiping friends, and the night leaned in to listen.

Papa set his cup down and looked at her the way he had under stage lights and in kitchens and now, here—like she was the headline and everything else was footnote. He reached into his jacket and placed a tiny square envelope on the table, cream with her name in his neat hand.

She glanced up, curious. He nodded. Inside: a small bookmark—brass, laurel-shaped, engraved on the back in tiny script:

Rosa stayed. We remember.
We keep each other. — C.

Her eyes shone. She turned it over once, twice, then slipped it safely into her clutch as if it were a fragile passport. “You’re very good at dinner,” she whispered, teasing to keep from crying.

“I am in training,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth tipping. “There is more night to be good at.”

He paid with a thank-you that made the waiter look pleased with his whole job. He helped Isabella into her wrap, his palms slow on her shoulders like a benediction.

“Walk?” he asked at the door, the canal a ribbon of gold and the air soft with November.

“Walk,” she said.

He offered his arm. She took it. Together they stepped back onto the cobbles, the carriage waiting a little way off, the driver tactfully entranced by the horse’s forelock. The lane opened to the water, and the lamps stitched a path of light across it that led toward the little bridge where the city hung a lantern year-round.

They turned that way, unhurried, the red of her dress warming the night, his tux catching and giving back the glimmer. Somewhere, very near, the perfect words were waiting. For now, he gave her flowers and laughter and the old, patient romance of a town that knows how to hold a moment—and led her toward the place where the evening would change their lives.

The lane spilled them onto the canal path, lights curling over the water like a stitched ribbon. Papa walked slow on purpose, his hand warm over her arm, saying small, perfect things that made the night feel like it had been saving itself for them.

“Look,” he murmured, steering her toward a little arching bridge the locals had claimed with romance. Its iron rails were thick with padlocks—tiny, ornate, rusted, new—names scratched or engraved, dates that had learned to be part of the weather. Someone had tied a bit of rosemary to one, now silvered with rain.

Isabella touched one of the locks, then another—Luca & Fede, M + A, Nonni per sempre. “I love these,” she said, smiling. “Little proof that people got brave.”

She turned to share it with him—and realized Papa wasn’t beside her.

The little bridge glowed under its lantern, padlocks glinting like tiny witnesses. Isabella traced a thumb over a brass heart and turned to share the find—only to find him a pace back, under the circle of light, dropping to one knee.

For a heartbeat the night held perfectly still.

“Isabella,” he began—her name like a prayer he’d finally decided to say aloud. “I’ve loved you since the second you walked through the Ministry doors and Sister introduced us—when you smiled like you already knew where everything belonged, including me.”

His laugh was soft, nerves braided with joy. “You’ve been there for me in every way a person can be there—backstage and between songs, in offices that smell like paper, in kitchens at stupid o’clock. On the road, you sent me anchors—bad jokes, a photo of your tea so I’d remember to drink mine. When I came home, you stood in my doorway like you were guarding the air I needed.”

He looked up at her, eyes bright. “You taught me it’s okay to miss things—that missing is just love in a different shape. You taught me how to enjoy the quiet—how to turn down the noise without turning off the light. With you, silence isn’t empty. It’s full of us.”

A crooked smile. “I love that you flirt with everyone and mean kindness by it. I love that you make ghouls behave and me braver. I love that you wear me on your neck, your bad Italian, your very good heart. And when I forget how to breathe, you put your hand on my wrist and remind me.”

He opened the box. The ring threw the lantern back like a promise—oval center, a halo of tiny stars, laurel engraved along the slim band.

“So… if you’ll take this—if you’ll take me—I will spend my life choosing you first. Morning coffees and midnight storms. Crowds and quiet. I will be your wall, your audience, your idiot, your man. Isabella… will you marry me?”

For a second she could hear everything—the hush of the canal, the lantern’s faint tick, the far clink of cutlery from a kitchen that believed in happy endings. Then she laughed, already crying, and said the word that fit.

“Yes.”

He slid the ring onto her finger; it seated like it had been waiting. He rose and she met him halfway. The kiss they made was soft and rain-sweet, sealed with a helpless laugh. Around them, a hundred old locks winked their rusty approval while the lantern wrote their new names in light.