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As before, this is another roleplay attempt between Behold and Confrazzled, each commanding a character, and through its course trading paragraphs back and forth.  While edited for readability, it is intended more for our enjoyment and thus does not read quite like a traditional novella.  (Perhaps, in part, more like a harlequin romance novel.)  As a disclaimer, this attempt of ours is far more drawn out, focusing more upon a plot, character, and a delicious Steampunk setting than our prior attempts.  So be aware, it takes a long time to "get to the goods".  If you want to skip ahead to the cut at the end, you are more than welcome, however, there are several teasing little incidents interspersed throughout . . .

But perhaps we're giving too much away.  Without further ado, enjoy!

 
It occurred to Vester that he'd be happy to trade with Lisslanna as he tried to squeeze himself into the unpleated, worsted pantalons that were the rage amongst the Ancelterri young and rich.  At least those whalebone-reinforced tents of silk were very spacious.

He wondered for a moment if the trousers were actually made to his measurements, as Garmt the tailor had reassured him, when he suddenly slid into them a bit further, and everything slotted into place.  It fit, alright.  As if it were sprayed on.  And as long as he didn't try to bend over, or breathe.  He eyed the high-collared jacket hanging over his chair with suspicion.  It looked even more uncomfortable than the trousers.  He'd always thought the aristo's had an easy life.  He was beginning to rethink that position now.

But when he turned around, he was treated to the sight of Lisslanna entering his dressing room. 

"I, ah, do not suppose that you could cinch this up any tighter, could you?" The line felt rather rehearsed to Lissla, and that was why she had almost opted, at the last moment, against using it.  However, she found that this 'borrowed' gown from one of the actual Patrician recruits to the rebellion army (whose own tawny hair was quite crudely shorn off just above her jawline, Lissla noted enviously) would not fit her own frame unless she was laced in quite tightly indeed.  The bloomers were ridiculous, as were the silk stockings fastened to them, and the heeled slippers, currently dangling from her left hand, were too pinching to even contemplate wearing before she needed to.  Her hair, however, was fastened up in a silvery net, dressed with a few coiling curls flowing down from strategic intervals, to frame her face in the manner favoured by the Ancelterri's upper echelons.  It had been dressed by the same tawny-headed young lady, with a few, the close-mouthed Lisslanna had noticed, envious glances towards the streaming jet locks.  It seemed ironic to Lissla that she would have been so willing to trade.  At least, had Vester not . . . had the entirety of her overbearing grooming and painstaking face-painting and whatnot not culminated to this moment.  Restrictive as the corset was yet, it was not that which was stealing her breath, and setting her half-exposed bosoms heaving.  She made a face, shattering the image of the boudoir-ready resplendent Patrician daughter.  "It is a good thing the bombs are getting strapped within my skirts.  I am earnestly beginning to doubt that the gown is ample enough to hold even my breasts."  'But if it does not, then you certainly can,' quipped in a naughty thought, though the young woman caught her tongue before it could slip out.

Although her voice sounded familiar as always, Vester had never seen Lisslanna like that.  She'd been very attractive in his eyes, and sexy, certainly, in a tomboyish way, but now her appearance hit him like a hammer with the full force of centuries of feminine refinement behind her.  Try as he might, his eyes could not help trace paths from her now ridiculously wasp-like waist over the delicious lines of her figure, the womanly curve of her hips, the now artificial arch of her stomach culminating in a gorgeous expanse of cleavage.  Good grief, had she had those breasts before?  What was left of the slender teenager he left behind?  Bare shoulders made her neck seem even longer than before as it lead towards a familiar, smiling face. 

Vester despised the Ancelterri, but he could not deny their expertise in the matter of seduction.  Because for all the clever support and accentuation the corset gave Lissla's figure, it left only a promising hint of her real forms.  Which he now desperately wanted to see.

All these thoughts transpired in a matter of seconds before Vester corrected himself, praying that the tight pantaloons would not have revealed the beginning bulging Lisslanna's semi-dressed entrance had provoked.  And he felt a little bit ashamed of himself.  Lissla was only comfortable around him because he was her friend, only wore these restricting and revealing clothes in the first place because he'd asked her to, and she trusted him.  What would she think of him if she saw him aroused?  That he'd had other, less noble reasons to get her into that dress?  She'd despise him forever.

Lissla's eyes traced their own paths, erstwhile, exploring the contours and ridges of shock over her long-standing comrade's face.  Her own scrunched up in response, as she made a decidedly un-ladylike face.  "Yes, I know.  You decidedly do NOT need to say anything; I am fully aware of how ridiculous this looks.  Believe me, this ranks among the last things that I would choose for myself to wear."

She turned about-face, drawing her loosened strands of carefully-curled hair over her shoulder, so that the back of the corsetry with its latticework of lacing was fully exposed to Vester.  "I simply cannot seem to . . . tighten this quite adequately on my own.  Awkward angle, whatnot," she shrugged, meeting his gaze from over her shoulder.

It occurred to Vester that she really had no idea what effect her scantily-clad entrance had had on him, something which relieved him slightly.  To her, he was only her childhood friend.  How could he have such lecherous thoughts about her?  He made a silent resolution not to get carried away like that again.  Maybe she'd been oblivious to the fact that his eyes had all but torn the underwear she so despised to shreds even while his hands and arms had remained perfectly still.  Or maybe she'd forgiven his indiscretion.  But his luck shouldn't be pressed any further.

Tying up her corset suddenly seemed an incredibly intimate act to him, imparting a new degree of hesitance to his fingers.  Surely he'd touched her back countless times when they were kids?  Surely he'd touched other women in the last four years, helped them put on bandoliers, hold bandages?

Vester realised that unreadily explained bashfulness on his part might reveal as much about his feelings as any lecherous gaze that might escape his eyesockets.  And so he tried not to hesitate when he gently seized the black lace of her corset.  Still, he felt unsure touching such delicate things.  This was work for a surgeon's hands, perhaps, or a pianist's.  Someone who could gently juxtapose the black cord against the delicious ivory-clad keys of her spine.  But as he pulled and tightened, following Lisslanna's exasperated directions, it became clear to him that a soldier's strength was no luxury for this task.  Ancelterri torture, it seemed, was not a privilege they reserved for their prisoners alone.

Each jerk of the laces cinched the cage tighter, forcing the breath incrementally from her lungs.  And with each jerk, Lissla felt a shower of stars rushing to her head.  From the lack of air permitted into the already-squeezed bellows of her lungs, or from Vester's touch, she could not be certain.  "That should—ahh—do it," she uttered at last, bracing her arms against the doorframe, trying to hold her position as Vester tried to yank her backwards in entirety.  It would not do to . . .  fall directly into his arms now, would it?  Have the two of them tumble end over end, to sprawl on the bedroom floor?  She was not wired with explosives quite yet, bestrapped and beharnessed, but she would likely smear his lovely coattails with dust in the process.  "If you can simply tie it up, I might as not wrestle with the beastly gown from here."

"But are you comfortable like this?" Vester asked uncertainly, unable to understand Lissla's willingness to torture herself like this.  She was clearly in pain, and part of him wanted to cut the lace open to relieve the pressure that was causing her such grief.  If the dress didn't fit then . . . maybe it didn't fit, and maybe they should call the whole mission off.

It vaguely occurred to Vester that he'd asked, no, ordered soldiers bleeding to death to hold positions, asked others with gunshot wounds to carry a comrade with a broken leg.  But all of that didn't matter now.

But again, she beckoned him to tie her up quickly, and he did, quickly working the black lace into a small, asymmetrical slipped knot.  It'd take only a gentle tug on the cord to release the corset if the pressure became too much.  "All done." he said, and he watched her inhale in response.  Maybe the corset wasn't so bad.

Indrawing as deep a breath as the contraption allowed, which bolstered her breasts, and set them bobbing like buoys, Lissla plucked up the silk gown which slunk out of her arms in a grey stream to pool at her feet.  The hoop needed to be affixed first, however, and it was already as strung and dangling with explosives as any festive Yuletide pine.  "Just a moment," she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, not bothering to leave the room before she stepped into the epicenter of the hoops first, clamping its series of clasps and buckles about her waist.  Next she slipped on the gown, its very wide neck drawn over her head, her shoulders, and her already-guarded thighs in a swift motion, before commencing to fumble with some of the pearly buttons ridging her spine.  Help was not quite requisite, though it could not have fallen amiss.  Should she . . . should she bother asking Ves?  No, surely such a thing would be far too forward.  She fumbled with them of her own accord, pausing occasionally to flick misplaced curls of hair that caught in her buttons, and under the low-cut bodice.  "Damned hair, always getting in the way," she muttered.

A flash of shears, she envisioned.  Just a handful of quick, greedy snaps and it would all be alleviated.  Lissla would be liberated from the ever-tangling tresses.  But not, however, quite equipped to take on any sort of Patrician's part.

"It's the price you pay for being beautiful," Vester replied as he stepped forward to assist with the buttons, hoping that the compliment sounded casual enough not to be interpreted as signifying romantic interest.  Ostensibly, it was true enough.  This silvery creature of smoky eyes and generous red lips around white smiles was pretty by anyone's standard --- to the extent that he vaguely worried that she might attract too much attention at the party.  It seemed that Lisslanna had directed her engineering genius towards her own appearance--to good effect.  But in some ways, it felt a little too unreal, too much like there was a layer of artifice between him and his old friend.

Part of him wished he could tear these phony clothes from her body, muss with her hair until it once again resembled the tousled, unkept look she'd had as a child.  But he also realised that to a large extent, Lisslanna enjoyed this, was subject to the same princess fantasies all women were, even if she'd never expressed them to him.  What did that make him?  Her prince on a white horse?  Not likely.  A lot can happen in four years, and it occurred to him that it was more than likely that she'd sought love in the arms of one of the members of the Ancelterri army.  A fellow soldier perhaps, or an Officer?  That would explain why she'd so uncharacteristically grown out her hair.  So that some gentle, courteous Ancelterri officer would note her and take her to a ball.

Well, she'd be able to act out her fantasy now.  But maybe not in the way she'd imagined.

Beautiful?  Her heart fluttered several cadences at the thought.  Or was that simply lightheadness stemming from the corset?  No, no such thing, she would have swooned elsewise.  He thought her beautiful?  How many times in Lissla's increasingly elabourate fantasies has Vester uttered much the same thing?  Granted, he had been staring limpidly into her starlit eyes in many of those instances, but preparing for a grimy undercover mission seemed as reasonable substitute as any other, the lady mechanic supposed.  But did that mean . . . she was beautiful only with the flowing tresses that characterized, well, the nobility?

The last button buttoned, and the skirts appropriately floofed out over the series of supporting hoops and grenaderie, she donned the pair of white elbow-length gloves that would hide the grease stains soiling her fingers for the bulk of the evening.  At least, for the part in which she was visible.  Plucking up her carefully-packed evening bag, she extended a hand towards her escort.  "Ready when you are," she offered, realizing only belatedly how much the simpering fool she sounded already.  "Ahh.  Might as not get into practice, no?"

"Indeed we might," Vester replied.  And offering his arm, he escorted her outside, where a stagecoach stood waiting.

Already, nothing but twilight lit the dusty surrounds of the road that led to the capital, and they were quite a way off still.  Vester understood that the driver was pushing his horses as much as he could, but the possibility that their carefully made plan would go to waste simply because they were late was infuriating.  A steam automobile would've taken them there in half an hour, but the only ones the rebellion could muster were battle-worn army trucks and farm machines.  Not the kind of vehicles Patricians would choose to deliver them to an important party, whereas a stagecoach, through old and outdated, still commandeered the right levels of chic.

He looked at his partner in crime.  They'd gone over everything they'd needed to discuss, rehearsed names and mannerisms.  And at some point, they'd passed through a period of awkward silence, into the area where breaking the silence becomes more awkward than the silence itself.  On some level, Vester knew that they still had so much to discuss, so many fond memories to relive.  But what was holding his tongue, then?  Fear that, if unrestrained, it might voice his attraction to her?  Something very close to that, at least.

Lissla's mind, however, journeyed entirely alternate routes.  Stagecoaches, while being effectively fashionable black-lacquered snuffboxes mounted on ornate axelry, also effectively diffused the illusion that they were comfortable whilst being, concurrently, not comfortable in the least.  Every bump, pothole, and thump Lissla felt keenly, as the bombs strapped to her thighs and skirts dug themselves a little firmer into her flesh, nipping at her with their sharp pins and lumpish knots.  Did Vester notice that sitting so stole her breath away, whisking it off before she could adequately form responses?  Blast, how could a woman chose to constrain herself in such a manner on any variety of regular basis?  The arrival did not hasten soon enough.  However, the flashing of their purloined invitation, of their half-giddy, pseudo-opulent smiles, and the slippered steps into the blaze-lit wonders of the hall all while trying to fake steps as dainty as any other lady's and not appear as if she were smuggling an entire other person beneath that bell of a skirt, were entirely other matters.  Clinging to Vester's arm, however, provided a little respite.  Surely, he would not think it too forward if she pressed her breasts a little closer than was entirely proper?  Surely it would only serve to increase her charade as the already-drunken Patrician daughter . . .

But, convincing as her act might be, at a glance, it wasn't exactly clear what one would have to do to stand out at this party.  The inner doors of the entrance opened to an ocean of sound, a cacophony of rinkling glass, laughter, boasts, taunts, chatter, and the occasional muffled shouts that summed to an incomprehensible white noise.

A shout of 'duck' barely pierced the wall of sound, and he could only just obey, dragging Lisslanna down with him, before an expensive bottle of wine smashed against the wall just above them.

Instinctively, he looked for the thrower, but whoever had sent it their way, the crowd seemed to have swallowed him whole, along with whatever reason he'd had for launching the alcohol-filled projectile.  A fat, maybe thirty-something Patrician, wearing only a half-untucked shirt above his trousers, approached them as if to address them, then seemingly changed his mind and turned around again.

Not that he was the only one so indecently dressed, with several other men apparently sharing his taste for partial undress.  Not to mention the women, several of whom had gowns revealing quite a bit more skin than their designers would have intended.

And behind it all, invisible and yet ever present, the non-patrician staff, calmly serving new wine, cleaning up broken glass, coldly enduring the taunts thrown their way.  Several of them were eyeing the new arrivals wearily, and Vester had to restrain himself not to shoot them an apologetic glance.  Of all the people whose suspicion they could attract, clearly, the staff were the most dangerous.

But this was no party like Vester had ever experienced before, and, judging by the way Lisslanna sidled up to him, neither had she.

Rebellion parties---soldier's parties, for that matter---were rough, raucous, unrestrained.  But at the same time, always infused by a kind of camaraderie and understanding that was ostensibly completely missing at this one.  The parties he'd been a part of had celebrated victories, successes, but first and foremost, the joint presence of the attendees, the fact that they were alive to celebrate.  This ball celebrated nothing except the raw destructive power of adulthood unrestrained by responsibility.

So many hours of preparation whittled away so quickly, Lissla reflected, caught up in the whirling of the wild roaring of gigglery, like the shrill laughter of plains cats.  The strains of music burgeoned somewhere in behind the chitter-chatter.  These women seemed busting out the seams of their wire-and-and-bone constraints, sleek salmon-like legs occasionally emerging from beneath the tiers of silk skirts.  Lissla released her own giggle, loud and unrestrained, after the bottle burst like some fantastic green water balloon to dribble down the paneling.  "Christening the ship, hey?" she asked, daintily (she hoped) stepping over the puddle of shard-strewn liquor.

It occurred to Vester that Lisslanna was handling the situation much more effectively than he was, standing there as he was, gaping like a fish on dry land.  Maybe she'd been to a party like this before, had been the-not-so-unwilling subject of an Ancelterri officer's drunken attention. 

Vester recognised the onset of jealousy for what it was, even recognised how counter-productive it was.  Legitimately or not, now was not the time to develop doubts about Lisslanna's amorous past.

Then why did he find the feeling so hard to surpress?  Perhaps because on some level, he did wish he could be like one of the Patrician men at the party, dancing, flirting, roughly feeling up his intensely attractive female consort, without regard for duty, or consequences, or hurt feelings afterwards.  But that could never be him.  And he couldn't even convincingly pretend to be that way.  Without much further ado, he nearly dragged Lisslanna into the quieter, darker corridors he knew to lead to the inner chambers, hoping that the grim set of his face would not attract too much attention.

Like the silvered fizz of a blasphemously expensive wine, an almost nervous, darkly-shaded giggle arose from Lissla once again, and she whacked Vester's unsuspecting hand lightly.  "Oh, Dustrin, so soon in the eve?  But the party has not yet begun in earnest," From whence had she channeled this . . . alternate femininity?  This coy seductress?  "But oh, you are so very earnest," she added somewhat breathily.  She raised an eyebrow, hoping that perhaps he could catch her game, play along somewhat, though this was not a stratagem they had explicitly discussed.  Not that she would mind . . . his tongue exploring the territory of her mouth, if it came to such.

Blast.  Had her thoughts already strayed so far?

"Why, of course my dear, I suppose we should socialize first." Vester replied, hoping that the ennui he intoned in every syllable was appropriate for a Patrician nitwit robbed of an opportunity to misbehave.  He picked up a small, multi-faceted glass of wine from a tray offered to him by a servant he didn't dare look in the eyes.  Offering it to his companion, he took another for himself.

Why was Lisslanna diverting them?  They'd discussed socializing with the Ancelterri upper crust, to make sure that they'd be able to blend into the crowd and sneak off later.  But they'd arrived late, and it was clear that nobody at the party would care if a couple were to seek privacy in the corridors without properly introducing themselves first.  So why was she slowing the mission down?

Again, he couldn't afford to suspect Lisslanna.  He tried to clear his mind by taking a sip of wine, and nearly spit it out when the liquid condensed against his palate almost immediately.

It wasn't ... quite wine.  Distilled wine maybe, but without the harsh, tangy taste he associated with the spirits he'd drunk in his lifetime.  And sickly sweet.  And the raucous nature of the party suddenly made a lot more sense when he realised the Young Magistrates were drinking it as if it was watered-down beer.

The glass chilled her hands even through her gloves, and Lissla knew—just knew—that they would not remain in the same pristine condition as the burgundy liquid would inevitably be sloshed out in spurts.  She took a slight sip, alcohol might make this bearable after all.  Though she did need to be sharp for setting those carefully carted explosives.  She tugged at Vester's hand a little insistently—less subtly than the coy ingénue—and managed to drag him into blocking her position as she dumped it out into the pot of a houseplant.  "It is so warm in here, no?  The press of the bodies . . ."

"Yes, it is.  Maybe we should find some place cooler," Vester intoned flatly, trying not to read signals into Lissla's behaviour.  Taking a sip, then pouring it into a pot, that might be a way to indicate something to agents nearby, wouldn't it?  The sweltering feeling of paranoia that hung around him like a blanket was only made worse by the fact that he, indeed, wouldn't mind pressing his own body close to Lisslanna's.  Had she been selected for this?  Had they found a loyal girl with a known link to an up-and-coming Rebellion leader, and convinced her to infiltrate?  Ridiculous!

Ridiculous little thoughts, like ants, easily dispatched individually, for none of those doubts stood up to even half a minute of scrutiny.  But together they formed a terrible ridiculous army, revolving madly around a single, immature, jealous thought.  That Lisslanna loved someone else.

Still, the mission was still on, and Vester gently escorted her in the direction of the corridor he'd paced towards earlier. 

A corridor that, half-darkened, was clearly lined with amorous couples every five paces.  Some of them chatting in the soft, earnest tone of young lovers.  Others more occupied with . . . other things.  Well, at least it meant their cover held up so far.  But planting bombs was going to be a lot more difficult than anticipated.

She let her fingers wander slightly, tracing up and down the sleeve of his sportcoat, feeling his firm musculature through the fine weave.  Half-convincing herself that it was all in act, though really, the dizziness she felt was in no way attributable to the slight sip of sticky, sickly-sweet wine.  Really, had they brewed the stuff of honeysuckle?  Ear-whirlers from the fifth hell.  All of 'em. 

And noggin-swirlers from the sixth, as well.  He felt a little squirmish underneath her, and she thought she knew why.  Well, she did not exactly fancying an audience for such a venture.  But then, the couples seemed engrossed enough as they were.  "Really, Dustrin, I had not come here expecting . . ." she murmured complicitly, willing him along.  Her words were almost drowned out in the rustlings.  She raised her eyebrows inquisitively, flicking out her lady's fan—utterly useless as a weapon and thuswise useless to her—and fluttering it in a crude imitation of the other ladies she had seen tonight.

Did she have to stroke him like that?  It was very believable.  Not to mention effective.  "Nanette, don't worry," he replied, speaking very softly.  "These people want privacy, just like we do.  They won't disturb us."

"Sorry, it's her first time here."  He smiled apologetically to a couple that had taken note of them.  And gently, they strolled forward, pretending to be in no particular hurry.  There was no opportunity at all to retrieve the floor plans Vester had taken along in his jacket pocket, but they'd memorized the layout of the building pretty thoroughly.  The problem was that the spots were the bombs needed to be planted were calculated pretty exactly.  And some might well be in plain view.

The first such spot, however, wasn't, being sheltered under a flight of stairs leading to the second floor.  It was, however, occupied by a young magistrate and his companion who, judging from the muffled, tense sounds they made, were neither talking nor kissing.  Vester didn't even bother to look, preferring instead to move onwards to the next target.  At least, with some luck, this couple would be gone in half an hour, once they'd finished their hasty clandestine fornication.

The corridor made a turn here, one that he knew to lead around the far side of the inner chamber.  People were scarcer in this area, and when he located the thick, concrete pillar that they were going to blow up, there was hardly a Patrician or servant in sight.

Her back finally pressed against the cool porous surface of the pillar, Lissla couldn't help slumping against the pole somewhat, at least so that the bottom rung of the dress' series of underhoops rested on the floor, and her waist was relieved of a great deal of that pressure.  She expected that it would be relieved of further still once the ballasts were cut free, to be strung in their respective and critical locations.  This, the first of such.  The halls were clear; seemed clear as they could become, but who knew what hid in those occluded corners?  Which slippered servant might dart around a twist of one of the winding halls?  And, more worrisome still, who might be sober and charged with some modicum of security?  She could not risk dropping the pretence in entirety, though they likely needed to work fast.  "Oh, Lord Dustrin, I can hardly believe . . . that we should be alone at last."  She tugged up her skirt, the least little bit, so that her ankle and the dainty leather slipper beneath peeked out.

Gods, what sort of people found ankles erotic?  When she was trussed in this getup it was hard to think of her legs as anything other than necessary support beams or perhaps the clapper to a bell.  But Vester, in his tight-fitting outfit, that was an entirely different matter altogether.  An entirely more delicious matter.

Vester had never given particular thought to ankles, but he'd been willing to consider their erotic properties since the beginning of the day, when they'd rehearsed unstrapping the bombs from Lisslanna's thighs.  But as he crouched to climb underneath the giant hoops that held up her dress, it occurred that their rehearsal, had missed an important point.  Earlier, in broad daylight, he'd been able to enjoy the gorgeous sight of Lisslanna's stocking-clad thighs, unsightly leather-clad lumps of explosives dangling from it.  Here, in the murky depths of the Ancilterri government antechambers, he saw nothing.  It was literally, pitch black.

"I can't see anything." he announced matter-of-factly. "I'm going to have to find them by touch."

Easier said than done.  For all he knew, his face might be inches away from the bombs.  Or she might be feeling his hot breath against her thighs.  There was no way to tell, and given the circumstances, it was better to be safe than sorry.  Quietly, he measured the distance to the ground, moved his hand around at a level that couldn't possibly be too intimate until it hit something.  Warm, stocking clad skin, taut and strong, with no bone immediately underneath?  Maybe one of her calves.  A quick feel around the leg's circumference confirmed his suspicion, and he slowly moved his hand upwards, tracing the gentle arch of Lissla's lower leg until he reached, as expected, the hollow of her knee.

"Find them by . . . mmm, Ves—Dustrin," she caught herself.  The thought was dizzingly, and she arced her head back against the pole, so that the few trailing curls of hair snaked down her neck, falling far from her face.  Her legs shivered deliciously at his touch, and she fought to keep her body from trembling.  Logic told her, instinctively, that in no way shape or form would this instant be drawn out satisfactorily for her, for it could only last a moment.  His fingers did not seem inclined to linger, but . . .

She felt the first ballast fall away. The encumbering weight of it dropping from the left side of her.

Quickly, almost coyly, he escaped from the womb-like environment of her dress, almost as soon as his fingers grasped around one of the bombs strapped to Lisslanna's thigh.  Desperate to avoid the impression that he'd thought about anything other than their mission while he was in there. 

Their fingers worked feverishly to unwrap the package, freeing the ignition from the small leather pouch that also contained the paper-wrapped sticky explosive charge.  And then he deferred to Lisslanna, watching her set up the bomb, while he took several steps backward to afford himself a better perspective on the gently curving corridor.

The plaster adhered near immediately, though Lissla felt it prudent to ensure the bomb was snugly stuck.  It wouldn't do to drop now.  Thuswise, it was a rather quick matter, to snatch the screw's driver plunged unceremoniously into a narrow pocket tucked into the skirt—no doubt intended for an alternate fan—crack open the coffin of the second layer of disguise, a fan's case, before whirling the pin into place, and carefully winding the wire around it.  Biting her tongue in concentration, she twisted it cautiously, before carefully tap-tap-tapping with the head of the screwdriver and prying away the pin.  Which she pocketed, with a tinkle, and looked to Vester, quite ready to move on to their second.  "We have tarried too long," the words were light enough, but the tone grave, for they both knew that as this device commenced its ruthless, quiet ticking, that they had only the span of half an hour to complete their task, and no more.

Steps.  They were audible, regular, distant, and slow, but they had a certain matter-of-factness to them.  They weren't army boots, but this wasn't a lovestruck couple casually searching for a quiet spot with some privacy either.  Swiftly, he walked up towards Lisslanna, seizing her upper arms, and well, acted out their mutual cover.

A part that they'd both agreed upon, must've considered carefully at some point, but hadn't rehearsed.  Something that Vester only realised when his lips were pressed harshly against hers, her eyes wide-open with surprise at his sudden brusque action.  A surprise that faded as the echoing footsteps reached her ears as well. 

He'd panicked.  Whoever it was, he wasn't anywhere near yet.  They could've walked away, relying on their softer footwear to cover their escape in a velvety veil of silence.  But now they stood there, lip-locked, frozen, a not very believable pretence that they'd have to keep up for another minute, at least.  He tore his lips away from Lissla's, ending the ridiculous mock-smooch he'd initiated.  Not exactly how he'd always imagined kissing her. "Act natural," he whispered into Lisslanna's ear, talking to himself more than to his partner-in-crime. 

Instinctively her moist lips had parted for his, but they remained . . . frozen, impassive.  It was like kissing a statue, or a golem.  Still, her heart fluttered in her chest, battered itself against her ribcage, threatening to leap up through her esophagus and burst into his mouth.  Just as she was starting to melt into him he—pulled away, with a strict command.

So it had been business, then, thoroughly.  For half a moment, she understood, though, why women might wear these wire-and-starch exoskeletons, for at least it propped her upright and kept her from tipping right over in the hall.

Though like as not she looked delirious.  "I think, Lord Dustrin," she began, once she trusted her voice enough to resemble an overeager, intoxicated patrician maid's.  (It was less an act than she might have hoped, though the intoxicant of choice was not the favoured wine but rather adrenaline possessed within the body's own system of animalcules, fuelled by her madly-thumping heart).  "I think, Lord Dustrin, that the gigue is up, and we . . . perhaps need to seek a more remote location for our, err . . ." she blushed.  Again, less an act than anticipated.

Vester wasn't sure "Lord Dustrin" was all that capable of giving a believable reply at this point.  The backlash from the rubbery, panicked kiss he'd given her on impulse hit him, the realization that for a few seconds there, he'd done what had been on his mind all evening.  What now filled his mind with an overwhelming desire to do it again.

Act natural.  No wonder Lisslanna had suggested they break it off.  But for him, nothing at this moment seemed more natural than to seize her again, breathe in the heavy perfume she wore in a hunt for just a few molecules of her far more intoxicating natural scent, while his lips and hands and groin would try to blend into her skin.

And he realised that Lord Dustrin would feel roughly the same way.  So in an instant, he was over her again, carefully avoiding pressing his lips on hers, the act that had left him tongue-tied with a mixture of panic and anticipation just earlier.  Vester, safe, gentle, honourable Vester, couldn't treat a woman like this.  But Lord Dustrin could.  He pressed soft lips against her silk-curtained uncovered shoulders, the taste of sweat and powder and Lisslanna on his lips as he ignored her gasp of protest.

The footsteps passed them by now, the even-spaced rhythm in syncopation with his own feverish, unconsidered contacts with Lisslanna's skin.  But the pace didn't change, and soon they faded again, became secondary in importance to even the rhythmic stroking of his hands on her back. 

And as the steps faded, he became Vester again, and he realised that the girl he held in his arms wasn't the Lady Nanette, but Lissla, his Lis.  The girl who would never submit to this kind of cavalier treatment. 

Finally, he released her from his vice-like grip, stared at the ground for what was seemingly an eternity before daring to face her questioning leaf-green eyes.  "Sorry," he said, unwilling to deny the fact that his little 'manoeuvre' had been prompted by anything other than animalistic lust for the girl he loved.  He reached out and stroked her hair, almost as if to comfort her for the sudden loss of innocence between them.

She felt like her feet were where her head was supposed to be, and her head . . . well, all of her might as not have been a whirling dervish set amongst stringy cotton clouds, as tethered as she felt to the earth at this moment.  All of her seemed to be aswirl against one fixed, tingling point.  The mark of his kiss, upon her collarbone, which flared with warmth and surged keenly with her pulse.  And then his hand, stroking her hair . . . she worried for a moment it would tangle in it, the vine-like tendrils wrapping about his fingers, binding him like the rollers which had coaxed the too-perfect curls.  Surely he wasn't taken with her hair . . . surely he wasn't taken with her . . .  that was more than she could dare hope.  The blurred line between the façade of Lord Dustrin and the Vester she knew and hoped she knew thoroughly blurred more and more incomprehensibly.  "What for?" she asked, a little tremulously, before the old guard came up, familiar and worn as a comfortable shoe.  "Hi-ho, away we go," she reminded him, as the subtly-ticking device wound onwards.

Speaking of onwards, now that the footsteps had long since faded away, the duo, too, needed to progress.  They ventured further, to the next strategic locale depicted on Vester's crude floorplan, surprisingly secluded as it was.  Only a few pauses to whisper into one another's ears and occasionally burble cadences of pseudo-drunken laughter were required, but Lissla herself felt quite keenly the constraints of the clockpiece.

There was no ... offense.  She didn't seem offended, or harried by his brusque treatment of her.  "What for?" she'd asked, but had she said something else, not with words, but with the language of body warmth and touch?  Vester knew he shouldn't think like that, knew that the sensation he had, tangible and real though it might have felt, existed only in his mind, and would soon seem distant and surreal, just as his earlier paranoia and jealousy now felt to him.  Had he felt like this all the time when he'd left her?  Maybe that was the real reason why he had run away. 

Feverish thoughts coursed through his mind as he stood perfectly still, Lisslanna's soft, leather-clad feet wrapped over his shoulders, affording her the extra height she needed to place the second explosive charge.  The hooped dress obstructed his vision, covered her legs and his head like some kind of bizarre gigantic lampshade.  Fortunately, there was little chance of someone walking in on them unexpectedly.  It would be hard to come up with a plausible explanation for the position they were in.

This time, when he rummaged beneath her drawers, Lissla thought that she had been braced for the sensation.  The fingers slipping smoothly over her flesh.  She had experienced it once before, so surely she could anticipate the fount of desire, and refrain from the temptation to trap his head between scissored-shut legs, refusing to release him until he complied with her wishes?  Confronted with her shapely thighs as he was, surely he could not deny that she was a woman, a shade more than a childhood friend.  A silly fancy, but an alluring one nonetheless, even despite the shortened span of time that they possessed in which to fuse the explosives.  He, however, had grown somewhat speedier in his practice, something that she lamented as he withdrew from the barely-trembling legs which whickered so sensitive to his touch.

She managed to control herself as she accepted the device in-hand, and felt herself hoisted upwards on those powerful shoulders.  This charge would be trickier to manoeuvre, as the beam spanned so high above her.  Setting the ticking mechanisms to their halfway point proved the easiest part.  Far harder still proved the application of the globulous adhesive, largely owing to the vertical positioning.  Lissla's tongue protruded slightly from the corner of her mouth in concentration as she strained to the very tippy tops of her tippy toes, smooshing the brass-and-chrome container to the ceiling.  A goopy glob fell from the ceiling to slop her head, catching a lock, dribbling downwards, along the length.  Blast.  A few drops splatted beneath, onto the gleamingly-polished floor.  Fast-drying adhesives; there surely would be no time to work it loose from the coiling lock, not if she wanted this charge set properly.  Which left . . . what alternatives?  No time to think on it.  And so her nimble fingers worked onwards, twittering wires in their quick twists, barely daring to rustle it with a breeze until all was set in proper. 

Vester obeyed her request to lower her down, gently bringing his left knee to the ground until Lissla could step onto the chair they'd used earlier.  And Vester couldn't possibly resist the opportunity to peek at the legs he'd touched twice earlier tonight.  Gorgeous, long legs, seemingly as streamlined as a fast steam automobile.  But not of steel, but of smooth, sensitive skin, and the girl he loved was aware of every stroke, no matter how subtle or tender, they had received from his seemingly burning hands. 

More than touching, he longed to make her feel touched, for her to experience the contact with the same intensity he did.  And the intoxicating desire he felt did not lessen when he slipped out from underneath the hoops, turning to face her radiant, smiling visage.  A single black lock had now fallen from her elaborate coiffure, smudged with a large blob of hardening grey adhesive, falling past her chin.  If possible, it made her seem even more attractive, and before he could restrain himself, he'd touched its root, gently picked up the sticky lock to prevent it from clinging to the soft skin of Lisslanna's face.

Of course, he would seize to that.  The flaw to the portrait of a lady that she presented.  "I suppose," she muttered, quirking her lips sideways, scowling as no proper lady would but unbeknownst to the young woman, with the same expression as her determined twelve-year-old self had often donned, well after she had discovered Vester owned her heart part and parcel.  A portrait of frustration, but also decisiveness, as she squelched the roilings of intimate feelings that she, and she alone, felt.  "I suppose I cannot very well go back to the party with THAT ground in there," she muttered.

"I don't know, I think it sort of suits you.  You could set a trend amongst the Ancelterri elite." Vester joked, a vain attempt to bring back some of the airy camaraderie that had existed between them once.  It felt like a lie, the corners of his smile strung up by the snare-like tension he felt through his entire body.

". . . But not until it marked the two of us as . . .  notorious and dangerous snoops, at best.  Spoon-thieves as second best."  Neither presented very viable alternatives.  She reached her hands, pawing at the clot.  Struggled to pry it apart, but even yanking two bits from the root widely, making a Y or perhaps tatting an eyelet of less-than-dainty lacework into her coiffure, her efforts were in vain, as the gray matter stuck fast.  She looked up at him grimly.  "I only see one alternative," she pressed her lips into a firm line.  "You did bring your penknife, did you not?"

"Yes, I did," Vester replied, drawing the slender wooden handle from the inner jacket pocket of his sportscoat.  He felt he had to say something.  It must've taken Lissla ages to grow her hair out like this.  "Are you sure you want to cut it off?  I think it's hardly noticeable."

She shook her head, the offending tendril standing out from her head now like whipped meringue.  She hadn't expected him to defend it so very . . . vehemently; to protect her hair just as one might attempt to cosset a child.  "Blast it, Ves, there is no conceivable way.  We can't jeopardize a mission simply to assuage my vanity.  I've grown rather fond of keeping my head affixed to my neck, thank you," she teased.  The next bit was a tad harsher to utter, as it felt so very intimate.  Even trying as she did to make light of it, Lissla's voice unconsciously fell a little softer, tainted with a hint of meekness.  "And, ah, I want you to do it, for I would make a jagged mess of it without a mirror."

"Very well," Vester replied, flicking open the little knife.  Not quite a gentleman's penknife, the way the blade had been forged into a heavy, strong point.  He'd taken it along because he'd imagined it might buy them a little more time at some point.  And it seemed that it would, but not in the way he'd expected it.

As he brought the blade to the lock of hair, carefully placing it at the beginning of the ugly grey blob, he realised that the edge wasn't half as sharp as it should be.  So his other hand, still close to the unfortunate strand of hair, closed into a fist around it, to substitute the moderate, constant pull of his strong grip for the much more unpleasant sharp tugs that a cut with a blunt knife would cause.

Still, he couldn't bear to watch her wince as he tried to pull the knife through the black locks, Lisslanna's hair seemingly able to stretch to infinity before slowly, reluctantly, severing at the contact point with the obtuse angle of forged metal.

For Lissla did wince, though perhaps not for the reasons that Vester suspected.  She had caught the slightly pained look on his face with the corner of her glance, and that dampened her well of desire.  She'd craved this so long, to lop of her hair in some form or another, and his electric touch was certainly exquisite despite her own desires, one had hardly dared hope for.  This, certainly, was more ceremonious than singeing it short in a candle's flame, or taking a kitchen knife to a horse's tail of it, or even her wire cutters to the bits that got in the way of her work, as she had so often considered.  Still, as the little tail of it, fastened by its anchoring blob, yielded to the persistent sawing of the sturdy little knife and came away in Vester's hand at last, a few longer strands trailing loose and away from it, Lissla could not help but feel her desire but half fulfilled.  Oh, if only he could shear the rest of her this way, and not be forced to tuck up that one trail-stranded end into some less-noticeable hidey hole within her intricate hairstyle!  The charade must persist.  The few blunted strands teased her, however, whapping lightly against her cheekbone.  Reaching a hand upwards, she fumbled to tuck them in beneath the bridge of a coaxed, pinned curl.  She shot a grim smile to Vester.  "Fair enough?" she inquired, readying herself for assembling the next charge.

'Fairest of them all.' the words, though heartfelt, remained unspoken on Vester's lips.  Still, he should say something to comfort her.

"It's hardly noticeable," he managed.  Her grim smile didn't waver, and it was obvious she was holding back a much more pained expression.  The back of his hand pressed gently against her cheek before he could stop it.  "Hey, don't worry about it.  I always thought you were very pretty with your hair short."  Had he just said that?  The words "very pretty" seemed to float in the air between them, and for a moment, just for a moment, he wished he could gobble them back up, unspeak them.  A moment that ended when he saw the lights in her large green eyes, the dimpled smile upon her round face. 

Lissla had to remind herself, after some seconds, to breathe.  Even then, the echoing of his hearfelt words had not ceased, and still resounded through her head.  Very pretty, very pretty, he thought that she was very pretty?  And always?  Had her fantasies transposed to reality?  It took some time, too, to find her tongue again.  "I've . . . you've . . .  we've charges to set, but, ahh, thank you."  She wasn't sure that she trusted her knees to work, but somehow they creaked to life almost of their own accord, ferrying her through the hallways.  Elated as she was, the drunken charade was far, far easier to maintain through the rest of the party.  Floating as she happened to—but still, somehow crystalline-meticulous with the adept fingers at laying her meticulous explosives through her dream-blurred vision.  Even the bombs seemed to tick in synch, ve-ry pret-ty, ver-ry pret-ty . . .

Without a hitch.  Without so much as a second glance from any of the patrician patrons and mad merrymakers.  Yes, there was a sliver of a chance that he had said that to assuage her vanity, ease whatever loss he had perceived of Lissla.  And, feather-flitting demons from the fourth Hell, she had no practice with reading any signals of Vester's ladyhandling.  But for now, her head was swirling.  Swirling as they departed in a fit of barely-manufactured giggles from the panes of the glass-faced patio doorway, saunter-stumbled through the illuminated paths of the back gardens, and through the hole they hacked in the hedgeway, to flee to the streets, back towards the base.

What had changed?  Nothing, and everything.  Lissla hadn't said a word to indicate that she was interested in anything other than completing her mission.  But her eyes, and smiles, and . . . It occurred to Vester that he really hadn't stopped looking at her face in one way or another since he'd severed the little tendril of hair.  And was it his imagination, or was she equally unwilling to break her eyes away from his? 
  Every passing second made his conviction stronger that it wasn't, the
positive feedback reinforcing his own boldness in touching her, holding her ... doing all the things a love-struck couple, Patrician or otherwise, could be expected to do, really.

But was it all an act?  Would this little perfect world of seemingly shared happiness vanish after they'd entered the privacy of the carriage?  Worry coursed through the corners of his mind, formed a taut knot in a stomach filled with butterflies just a moment ago.

For a moment, he hesitated, unwilling to step into the dark confines of the coach.  That wooden box that held ... well, certainty.  Did he really want to know?

He did.  And when he closed the door behind them, he realised that the coach really wasn't so dark at all.  Because he could see everything he needed to see by the warm light of Lisslanna's smouldering eyes.

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