The day Mena was to head out to Laurent’s estate to see Olivier had finally arrived. Though it had really only been two weeks, to Mena it had been a lifetime. She woke early, as the carriage ride would take three hours, and she didn’t want to miss any time with her favorite people. The chirugeons so graciously sent by Niklos had examined her grandfather and come to the same conclusion as his usual one: he was near the end of time here. They suggested that word be sent to Moon House, a place that was staffed largely by retired Balm adepts and specialized in caring for the dying. Today was the day that Eléonora nó Balm, the woman who was picked for Olivier, was arriving at the estate. While Mena’s presence wasn’t required, she would not miss this for all the money in Heliotrope’s coffers. This visit, like all to the Marquis’s home, was to be a homey affair, so she didn’t need to put on anything fancy. She opted for a dress like the ones she wore before patrons arrived, albeit a new one. It was loose enough that she was able to put it on alone, which granted her private time for her thoughts.
Yawning, she laid out her light coat and slipped her feet into her favorite shoes, her thoughts shying away from speculation on Olivier’s condition and settling to the equally unpleasant topic of Kyrie and—
The door to her room slammed open, saving her from that line of thought, but startling her so much that she swore like a merchant. Loir, for who else would it be since no one else was as comfortable with Mena as her, started laughing. “Thank Elua that Kyrian isn’t here to hear such unladylike words come from your mouth.”
Mena snorted her own laugh. “Oh please, don’t remind me. I am ready to be free of him.”
Loir came over and picked up the brush, helping Mena with her hair. “I know you are, but I have a feeling that, when all is said and done, getting rid of the plague will have been less of a feat than yourself from disentangling him.”
Mena sighed, letting her shoulders drop. Loir was her closest friend, someone that she never had to keep up appearances around. “I know, Loir, he didn’t handle this last week well, did he?”
“I think a cat would handle an ice bath better,” Loir said, her hands making quick work of Mena’s hair, braiding it and having it pinned up in half the time it would have taken Mena herself. “But they say that the first step is always the hardest, do they not?”
“Let’s pray you’re right, I have too much going on to have to add the alternative to my list.”
*
“This bread is incredible,” Eléonora said, dipping said bread into her soup. “I am glad to know that we don’t have any worries about your diet, Olivier.”
The group was seated in the large conservatory at the de Clair estate, enjoying a comfortable meal. Eléonora had arrived and immediately it was clear that she was a perfect fit. She slid into a space in Mena’s little family that she didn’t know existed until the other woman filled it.
Olivier laughed, his hearty, room-filling laugh filling the large space as easily at it filled Mena’s heart. “The bread at Heliotrope is famous. Our cook is magical, everything she makes is delicious, but baking is where her talent really shines.”
He stopped for a moment to cough into a handkerchief, dark blue to better camouflage the blood, before continuing. “She sends unbaked loaves to us daily.”
“I tell her she should sell them and make money for her family,” Mena chimed in, “but she’s insistent it’s for us to love and share alone. Eléonora, the next time you come to the city, please come by the house. We’d love to share our hospitality with you.”
“Please, call me Leona,” the other woman said with a smile. “I would love to experience food that’s referred to as ‘magical.’ To the matter at hand, if no one objects?”
Mena felt her heart drop, but she kept her face calm as nodded. When she looked around the table, she saw tears in Laurent’s eyes, so she reached out for his free hand, lacing their fingers together in support. Olivier’s face was tired, his raw emotions visible. Mena wished she was closer, she wanted to do something to ease his pains.
Leona smiled, a gentle smile spreading across her face. “I am here with you all until the end, and beyond if you need me. I promise to do anything and everything to ease this transition for you, Olivier.” She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it firmly. “I will take care of you, and I will make sure your loved ones are taken care of, as well. Pass that burden of care to me, all of you, and just revel in your time together.”
Tears choked Mena’s throat, stealing her voice and making her shake slightly. All she could manage was a tight nod, her vision swimming. She felt a warm, strong hand take her free hand and squeeze it. It was Leona, she knew it, and she let herself take the comfort freely offered.
They all sat in silence, letting the hard fact sink in. Olivier’s days were waning, his sunlike warmth slipping towards the horizon. Mena took a deep breath, letting the knowledge filter through her body, promising herself that she would soak in as much of Oilivier as possible every visit she was able to make. That way she could carry him with her through the cold days that would inevitably come, and she could pass that warmth to others when they needed it.
She made eye contact with him, feeling his love wash over her. When he smiled at her, it was easy to return it. Olivier nó Heliotrope was a paragon of the House ideals. Mena hoped she could manage to walk in his footsteps and be a credit to both him and the House.
*
In the evening, after the moon rose, Laurent took Leona to familiarize her with the ins and outs of his household, leaving Mena with Olivier. Hours prior, Mena had moved to the deep sofa Olivier was reclining on, burrowing into his side like she had as a child. He had wrapped one arm around her, still turning the pages on his book with the other hand. Mena had her embroidery project on her lap, working diligently, letting her responsibilities slip away and be replaced with the familiar comfort of the man who raised her.
Laurent and Leona hadn’t been gone long when Olivier spoke. “Your mother and the duke came to see me yesterday. It was so good of her to come all this way to see an old man.”
Mena set her work down and turned to lean her cheek on his chest, “You’re not just ‘an old man’, Gran-père, you’re her Dowayne.”
He laughed, loud and full, only coughing lightly as he spoke. “You’re sweet child, but I’ve not been her Dowayne in decades. Even before she left the house, she had detached from us all and turned her light elsewhere. We’re all lucky that she landed on the duke, he was always one of her kindest patrons.”
Mena made a quiet noise of agreement, “That is true, the duke is so very kind. He’s as kind as he is intelligent and devoted to her. I suppose in that way, she’s living Heliotrope still, despite not being with us.”
“Ah, baby duck,” Olivier sighed deeply, closing his book and pulling her closer. “That hurt hasn’t gone yet has it? I had always hoped that by this time, you would have found your own sun to help you fill that spot with warmth. And understand why Chrystanthe did what she did. It has never been that she didn’t love you or want you, child. She loved you so much that she saw that she wouldn’t be able to shine on you like you needed. She set aside herself and asked me to nurture you into your best self.”
Mena nodded but didn’t respond. This was a conversation they’d had countless times over Mena’s life. Chrysanthe had married the duke and left the house when Mena was three, breaking the House tradition of parents raising their children. While growing up, Mena heard so many stories of her mother; how delicate Chrysanthe was, how she had always been suited to receiving devotions not bestowing them, how her mother had spoken openly that she wanted a child so that she could feel the love of a child. She’d heard the whispers that the only reason Chrysanthe had agreed to Olivier’s plan was that she assumed any child she bore would look at her with the singular focus she craved. All of the older adepts spoke critically of her, saying that while she was a Heliotrope, she wasn’t a true and balanced one, how she was selfish, on the edge of being an embarrassment to the house.
“You know,” Olivier’s pensive voice cut through the fog of her thoughts, bringing her mind away from the turbulence that was her mother. “I would like to see Belisario one last time.”
Mena nodded, “I will go to Byrony and tell him to come. It has been long enough, I am sure he’s let it go. Or if not, I know Arietta will escort him here herself.”
Olivier was silent for a long moment before he spoke quietly, “Your grandmother and I never could figure out where we went wrong with him.”
Mena shook her head, “You know it’s not wrong. He’s just devoted to Namaah and Elua differently. Just like his sisters and brother went to different Houses, Belisario was always for Bryony.”
Olivier shook his head, “If it was just being for Bryony, I would not be so troubled. The others, they stepped on to their paths easily, to Balm, to the guards, to a quiet life in Aragonia—” he trailed off, tipping his head back, clearly struggling. Mena didn’t interrupt his thoughts, she knew that as much as Chrysanthe was like a millstone on her neck, Belisario was Olivier’s.
After a few minutes of thought, Olivier finally spoke again. “It was like no matter the love we shone on him, it was never enough. He views love as his due, not a gift from Namaah to be shared. I have tried and tried to understand, we all have, but he just jealously hoards everything he can grasp as though Elua and Namaah will come and take it from him at any moment.”
He started coughing, more violently this time, the attack grabbing him in its jaws with incredible speed, making him shake with the force of it. Mena moved quickly, giving him his handkerchief, shifting to her knees so she could lean him forward to help, and running her hand smoothly over his back as she tried to soothe him through it. She chose to ignore how thin he was, how he felt like little more than skin laid loosely over bone beneath her palm. Leona and Laurent returned, both out of breath as though they had run when they heard him start coughing. Leona reached into her apron and pulled out a small bottle. Moving with a speed and grace that only decades in Balm could grant, she gently cradled Olivier’s head and helped him drink from the bottle. When he was done, she leaned him back and smoothed his wrinkled clothing with soft hands. He smiled at her, reaching blindly for Mena’s hand and squeezing it tightly when he caught it. She sat, still on her knees, holding his hand, until the medicine gently pulled him into sleep.
“Child, we should let him rest now,” came Leona’s soft voice.
Mena nodded, taking a moment to set his book safely within reach, tucking him in so he stayed warm. He was always so cold now. She stood carefully and looked at Leona. “Thank you. Already, you are easing his suffering.”
Leona nodded, but didn’t respond, instead taking Mena’s hand in hers as quiet comfort. Laurent spoke quietly. “Your carriage is out front whenever you need to head back to the city.”
Mena took a deep breath and nodded, “I will go now. I have so much work to handle. He asked me to go to Byrony. I’ll send word when I do.”
Laurent’s face fell, and he sighed. “I went before we left the city. Belisario refused to even speak to me. I am afraid it’s a fool’s errand.”
Mena pulled her hand gently from Leona’s grasp and cupped Laurent’s face. “He will see me, Laurent, or he will pay.”