Book 02 - Chapter Eight:

Olivia felt it before she consciously decided to speak.

Not in her stomach.

Not in her chest.

Along her hackles—an instinctive prickle that Greymuzzle had taught her to respect, especially when it urged careful honesty rather than caution.

So she leaned into it.

“I… get the feeling you and Titania have a history,” she said quietly.

The room went still—not tense, but attentive.

Charles didn’t react immediately. He studied her for a moment, eyes sharp but not closed, weighing how she had asked rather than that she had.

Olivia continued, choosing her words deliberately.

“I know you’re the Jester of the Winter Court. And that it’s more than performance—you’re an ambassador, an advisor. A… bed warmer, when needed.” She winced faintly at her own phrasing, then pressed on. “That part makes sense. You’re Winter.”

She met his gaze fully.

“But when you talk about the Summer Court… it’s different. Not the same feeling. But there’s something there.” A pause. “Spill it.”

For a long moment, Charles said nothing.

Then he exhaled, slow and measured, and gave a small, rueful smile.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “There is history.”

Miss LaDonna’s lips curved knowingly, though she said nothing—yet.

Charles folded his hands together. “The twin Courts meet twice a year, during the Concordances. Equinox festivals, held in Grethel. Spring and Autumn.” He glanced briefly toward the window, as if remembering sunlight that didn’t belong to this world. “They are… carefully orchestrated affairs.”

“Diplomacy wrapped in pageantry,” Miss LaDonna supplied lightly.

“Precisely,” Charles agreed. “I have spent centuries attending those Concordances in one role or another. As envoy. As witness. As necessary complication.” He smiled thinly. “You do not repeatedly place the same people in close proximity, under ritual obligation, without developing… familiarity.”

Olivia nodded slowly. “So you and Titania—”

“—have history,” Charles finished. “Yes. That much I will freely admit.”

He lifted one finger. “But past romances, perceived or otherwise, are not a suitable topic for polite company—especially where the Courts are concerned.”

Miss LaDonna laughed outright at that.

“Oh hush,” she said comfortably. “Polite company never stopped anyone from wondering.”

Charles shot her a look. “Miss LaDonna.”

She waved him off. “I’m not saying anything scandalous. Just that Summer has always been fond of excess—emotion included. And you were young once, Charles.”

“I was dutiful,” he muttered.

“Mm,” she replied, entirely unconvinced. “And very pretty.”

Olivia’s ears flicked, fighting a smile.

Charles cleared his throat pointedly. “The important thing, Olivia, is this: whatever history exists between myself and Queen Titania has no bearing on your Audience. You will not see her. You will not be tested against her. The Concordances are not in session.”

Miss LaDonna sobered slightly. “Winter and Summer touch rarely. When they do, it leaves impressions. That’s all you’re sensing.”

Charles nodded. “Exactly. Old proximity. Old responsibilities. Nothing you need to carry.”

He met Olivia’s eyes again, warm and steady.

“Your concern was perceptive,” he said. “And appropriately timed. But you are not walking into a tangled web of Court politics.”

Olivia felt the prickle along her hackles ease, settling back into calm.

“…Okay,” she said. “That helps.”

Miss LaDonna smiled approvingly. “She notices things,” she said.

“Yes,” Charles agreed softly. “She does.”

And somewhere deep in Olivia’s instincts, a quiet certainty formed:

She had asked the right question.

And she had been answered as much as she needed—for now.

The afternoon stretched long and golden.

Olivia lay sprawled on her towel atop the roof, privacy light glowing softly at the access door, the sun warm on her back and shoulders. No clothes, no expectations—just heat, breeze, and the quiet comfort of being unseen. Her tail lay loose beside her, tip twitching lazily now and then as she soaked it all in.

The buzz at the door startled her just enough to lift her head.

A moment later, Miss LaDonna’s voice came through the intercom by the hatch.

“Just me, dear. Mind some company?”

Olivia smiled toward the door. “Sure—come on up!”

The hatch opened, and Miss LaDonna emerged carrying a tray with practiced balance: two tall tumblers packed with ice and a glass pitcher beaded with condensation.

Lemonade.

Olivia’s ears perked immediately. “Oh—yes.”

Miss LaDonna laughed softly. “I thought you might approve.”

She set the tray carefully on the edge of the unlit firepit and settled into a nearby chair as if the roof had always belonged to her. Olivia rose at last, crossed over barefoot, and poured for them both, the lemonade hissing pleasantly over ice.

She lifted her glass first—paused, inhaled, nodded once in solemn respect—and took a long drink.

“Perfect,” Olivia said reverently.

Miss LaDonna smiled, pleased, and sipped her own.

They talked at first about nothing at all. The weather. A book Miss LaDonna had half-finished and decided she didn’t like. A particularly ridiculous Host argument from the week prior. The sort of conversation that wandered and doubled back on itself, unburdened by purpose.

Eventually, as it always did, it drifted toward Charles.

Olivia glanced over, casual. “You know… he really won’t say anything definitive about the rumors, will he?”

Miss LaDonna’s smile turned knowing. “No. Charles never confirms, and he never denies. He’s very consistent about that.”

“Which somehow makes it worse,” Olivia said.

“Of course it does.”

Miss LaDonna leaned back in her chair, eyes half-lidded as she regarded the sky. “I’ve been a guest in both Courts more than a few times,” she said lightly. “Enough to notice certain… decorative choices.”

Olivia’s ears angled toward her. “Decorative choices.”

“In Winter,” Miss LaDonna continued, “there’s a stained glass window in the back halls, near Her Majesty’s bedchambers. Not public. Not ceremonial. Quite private, really.”

She took another sip.

“It depicts two figures. One crowned in frost and shadow. The other—recognizably Charles. Not as a fool. Not as a jester. But as himself.”

Olivia blinked. “That’s… specific.”

“Oh, it’s exquisite,” Miss LaDonna said fondly. “The way the light hits it in the early hours—”

“And Summer?” Olivia prompted.

Miss LaDonna chuckled. “A tapestry. Ever-blooming flowers, woven so they never fade. Same placement. Same intimacy.” She glanced sideways. “Same second figure.”

Olivia stared at her glass. “…You don’t commission art like that over a rumor.”

“No,” Miss LaDonna agreed. “One does not.”

They sat with that for a moment, the lemonade sweating in their hands, the sun slowly angling lower.

“Charles would be mortified if he knew you were telling me this,” Olivia said.

Miss LaDonna smiled serenely. “Charles is mortified by many things. He survives.”

Olivia laughed, tail thumping once against the towel.

They lingered there as the afternoon softened into evening, gossip drifting into laughter and back again, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon. Sometimes it was necessary—healthy, even—to speak freely, to indulge in speculation and shared amusement.

They finished the lemonade. The ice melted. The sky deepened in color.

And for a while longer, they simply sat together on the roof, enjoying the warmth, the stories, and the quiet pleasure of knowing some things didn’t need to be taken seriously to be true.

They gathered their things as the sun dipped lower, the roof cooling beneath their feet. Miss LaDonna took the tray, Olivia slung her towel over one shoulder, and together they headed for the stairwell, laughter still lingering between them like warmth.

Halfway down, Olivia slowed.

She hesitated—just a beat—then smiled to herself and decided she was brave enough.

“Miss LaDonna?” she asked, tone careful but curious.

“Yes, dear?”

Olivia glanced at the steps, then back up, ears flicking with mischief. “Is Charles a good… bed warmer?”

Miss LaDonna stopped dead.

Then she cackled.

Not a polite laugh. Not a discreet one. A full-bodied, echoing, delighted cackle that bounced off the concrete walls and lasted so long Olivia started to wonder if someone downstairs might come investigate.

Nearly a full minute later, Miss LaDonna wiped at her eyes, still smiling.

“Honey,” she said, catching her breath at last, “I’ll come out and say it—no euphemisms needed.”

She resumed down the stairs, utterly unbothered, voice warm with certainty.

“He is exactly what is needed, when it’s needed. He can be as gentle as a feather, or rough as a hurricane—whatever is wanted at the time.”

Olivia’s ears went a little pink.

“The best part?” Miss LaDonna continued, glancing back with a knowing look. “He knows without asking what you need and when.”

They reached the bottom landing. Miss LaDonna paused, setting the tray down for just a moment, and looked at Olivia squarely.

“He’s not a caring lover,” she said simply. “He’s a competent lover.”

She smiled.

“And that makes all the difference in the world.”

Olivia stared at her for a heartbeat—then burst out laughing, tail swishing hard enough to thump the wall.

“…Good to know,” she managed.

Miss LaDonna picked up the tray again and headed toward the breakroom. “Come along,” she said lightly. “Dinner waits. And gossip, like lemonade, is best enjoyed in moderation.”

Olivia followed, still grinning, feeling lighter than she had all day.

Monday morning slid back into place like a familiar coat—comfortable, well-worn, and suddenly lighter.

Olivia woke before dawn without an alarm, the quiet certainty of routine pulling her from sleep instead of restlessness. She dressed quickly and slipped out into the cool morning, pads meeting pavement in an easy, steady rhythm. The run wasn’t as long as Sunday’s, nor as swift—but it didn’t need to be. Her breath stayed even, her thoughts unknotted. When she turned back toward the Station, she did so because she was finished, not because she was tired.

That alone felt like a small victory.

She was showered and settled by the time breakfast was laid out in the breakroom. Charles and Miss LaDonna were already there, tea steaming gently, the morning light slanting through the windows.

Olivia did not hesitate.

She built herself a mountain.

Eggs—soft and abundant.

Biscuits split and drowning in white gravy.

Sausage, bacon, the whole unapologetic Southern affair.

Miss LaDonna watched with quiet approval. Charles merely smiled.

As Olivia dug in with enthusiasm, tail giving a pleased little sway, she glanced up between bites.

“So,” she said casually, “about my Audience with Queen Mab.”

Charles lifted his teacup but didn’t drink yet. He was listening.

“I know what not to say,” Olivia continued. “And how to address her. Honorifics, honesty, all that.” She paused, fork hovering. “But… when will it be? And what should I wear?”

She hesitated, then added, a little surprised at herself, “I think I’m actually starting to look forward to it.”

Miss LaDonna smiled into her cup.

Charles set his tea down gently.

“The timing,” he said, “will not be announced far in advance. Winter prefers inevitability to anticipation. You’ll have perhaps a day’s notice—two, if she’s feeling indulgent.”

Olivia nodded, unfazed.

“As for attire…” Charles considered her for a moment. “Formal, but not ostentatious. Respectful without submission. Winter appreciates clarity.”

Miss LaDonna chimed in, “Think intentional. Not costume. Not armor.”

Charles nodded. “Precisely. Wear something that says who you are now, not who you think you should be for her.”

Olivia chewed on that, then nodded slowly. “I can do that.”

“And,” Charles added, eyes warm, “you will not go alone. You’ll be escorted properly. Observed, of course—but supported.”

That settled something she hadn’t realized was still hovering.

She smiled, broad and genuine, and went back to her breakfast with renewed enthusiasm.

For the first time since the thought of the Audience had been placed before her, it didn’t feel like a looming test.

It felt like an appointment she was preparing for.

And that made all the difference.

The mail cart rattled to a stop at the front desk with its usual self-satisfied little thunk, waiting patiently to be unloaded.

Olivia sorted with practiced ease—flyers that hadn’t been printed in decades, padded envelopes that hummed faintly, a package that politely pretended not to exist until tomorrow—

—and then she paused.

One envelope lay among the rest, unmistakable.

Pale blue.

Cool to the touch.

No return address.

That alone wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow around here. But when she turned it over, she saw the seal.

Silvery wax, pressed into the shape of a perfect snowflake.

“…Huh,” Olivia murmured.

She slit it carefully, mindful of the seal more out of instinct than reverence, and unfolded the letter inside.

The handwriting was exquisite—not ornamental, not ostentatious. Just the product of centuries of habit, every curve confident, every line balanced. Someone who had written their entire life and never once felt the need to prove it.

She read the opening line.

Miss Olivia Harrison of OtherWorlds Media,

Shepherdess of the Station,

Guardian at the Gate,

Citizen of the unaligned Realm Mundane,

Olivia blinked.

Then she read it again.

The letter continued with measured warmth—inquiring after her health and welfare, expressing the hope that all was well with her and those under her care. Polite. Impeccable. Entirely unhurried.

And then, at last, the purpose:

The Audience.

Thursday.

2:00 p.m. local time.

Mundane Realm reckoning.

Olivia had to read that part twice, just to be sure.

The closing paragraph was almost playful:

If you would be so kind as to RSVP via our Jester—

he is not much on detail, of course,

but useful in other areas.

Olivia snorted before she could stop herself.

The signature, of course, was flawless.

Yours most Eternal,

Mab,

Queen of the Winter Court.

She folded the letter with care and sat there for a moment, tail stilled, heart steady.

Thursday.

When Charles stopped by the desk to collect his mail, Olivia slid the envelope toward him without a word.

He recognized it instantly.

Charles read in silence, eyes scanning quickly, then more slowly, one brow lifting just a fraction. When he finished, he tapped the page lightly with one finger.

“Hm,” he said. “She’s in a good mood, then.”

Olivia looked up. “Because…?”

“She gave you three full days of notice,” Charles replied. “And mentioned me by title. That’s generosity by her standards.”

He handed the letter back. “Very well. Now we know the when.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Have you decided what you’d like to wear? And what transportation you prefer?”

Olivia’s ears perked.

“Walking is, of course, the quickest and easiest,” Charles continued mildly. “Or we could hitch a ride. Or—if I really must—I could pull Matilda out of storage, though it’s unlikely we’d have her serviced in time.”

Olivia stared at him.

“…There are options?”

“There are always options,” Charles said mildly, folding the letter once more and setting it aside. “It all depends on what you want—and the kind of impression you wish to leave on the gathered Courtiers. It won’t matter to the Queen, of course—ever may she reign in Winter. She’s seen everything: artifice, glamour, spectacle.” He looked at Olivia over his glasses. “Entirely up to you. Tell me what you want to wear, and how you wish to travel.”

Olivia stared at him.

That… wasn’t what she’d expected.

“Well,” she admitted slowly, “I thought I’d need something very formal. Like—” she gestured vaguely, “a sixteenth-century ballgown. Something elaborate. And that we’d arrive through some… I don’t know. Magic. Something dramatic you pulled out of your coat.”

Charles chuckled, genuinely amused.

“My dear,” he said kindly, “I dress as I do because it’s what I’m comfortable in. I’ve worn versions of this for centuries. It suits me. That’s all.”

He leaned back. “There’s no hard rule about attire for an Audience in the Winter Court. You need only be clean, intentional, and comfortable. Winter has received guests from every time and every Realm—each dressed in what they consider formal. Animal skins. Armor. Robes of office. Once, a being who manifested as nothing but a shaft of colored light.” He smiled faintly. “Perfectly polite fellow.”

Olivia blinked, then laughed softly, tension easing out of her shoulders.

“In that case…” she said, thinking it through out loud, “I’d wear my good jeans. Tailored ones—tapered to show my legs and tail properly. A fitted blouse. And my station jacket.”

Charles nodded along, already approving.

“No shoes,” Olivia added. “Obviously. And no hat. It would just get in the way of my ears.”

She looked up at him, a little uncertain. “That feels… right. Like me.”

Charles beamed.

“A perfect fit for you, my dear!” he declared. “A style that suits you—nothing ostentatious, nothing overbearing. Suitably you, head to toe.”

He tapped the desk lightly for emphasis. “And that will impress far more than a ballgown made of sea shards any day.”

Olivia smiled, relief and confidence settling in together.

For the first time, the Audience didn’t feel like a performance she had to prepare for.

It felt like an introduction—on her own terms.