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[ She floats there for a while as she gasps for breath, still giggling involuntarily regardless of his request. ]

B-bury me in the pâtisserie near [ interrupted by another batch of giggles as she lifts her hand weakly to try to dash tears from her eyes and realizes she's putting more water on her face by doing so. ] the Grande Royeaux. The one with the l-little eclairs.

[ She clears her throat as she finally starts getting a hold on herself again, raises her head to look at him, and then drops it back to the water, watching the clouds begin to change color with the sunset. ]

I hate you.

[ she's smiling widely. ]

Dear heavens, my girl, I'm not such a fool as to bury you there. I know you'll rise from the grave if you do. A demon of Hunger - or at least a demon of Sweet Tooths - will come and possess your corpse.

[ He cups some water in his hand, then dribbles it over her forehead. ]

I shall burn your body and mix your ashes in with the coals being used to fire crucibles making gold jewelry. How is that?

[ She rolls her eyes and bats at his hand ineffectually as it moves over her face. ]

Absolutely not. I have a fervent wish to rise from the grave to avenge myself upon you.

[ beat ]

And afterwards eat small eclairs.

Dear Alexandrie, do not worry yourself. Unrepentant rakes like me always end up punished in the end.

[ Another dribble of water over her forehead. ]

But I must ask - why small eclairs?

[ she hums in amusement at the concept of life meting out appropriate consequence for action and abandons batting at his hand in favor of a brief puff or two of air aimed at it as if it could be blown away instead. ]

Because I find it allows me to eat more of them before I begin to feel the stirrings of guilt and it is more ladylike to have my mouth entirely full only in private, of course.

[ Innocently: ] Really? I seem to recall one time in public.

[ She is still looking at the sky, but a coy smile plays about her lips. ]

I did not say I was always ladylike.

[ Mournfully: ]

Ah. So they've tamed your wild spirit.

Oh, yes. I am the very ideal of a prim and proper lady now.

[ she says, soaking primly and properly in a public fountain now rather scandalously clad. ]

Enough men determinedly climbing on top of you and eventually they break you to the bit.

[ le sigh. ]

[ Byerly, who was kissing boys even in the days they knew each other, purses his lips and says: ]

Well, I wouldn't know about that.

But you're a very fine and lovely ox.

[ Amusedly: ]

Oxen are broken to the yoke, you backwoods simpleton.

I am an Orlesian palfrey; proud, beautiful, and exceptionally suited to pleasure riding.

But broken still. Dreadful thing.

You mourn me then? How romantic. Shall you have a ceremony to express your grief for the loss of my reckless youth?

I've been holding that ceremony for the past decade, my dear.

Since before you knew of it?

[ Or at least she assumes. It has, in fact, been over a decade since the series of events that prompted her to take her current path. ]

Romantic and terribly committed. I am profoundly affected.

[ He lifts his eyebrows at her. ]

Ma cherie, what makes you think I didn't know of you before I met you?

[ Thoughtful, then, as she continues to watch the sky: ]

Well then, do not mourn. Not she who struggles back despite all efforts. Rejoice. Or somesuch.

[ Thoughtfully in return: ]

Is that what she has done?

In love without overmuch consideration for the greater consequences thereof? I can only assume so.

[ it is said fondly, if with the shade of self-aware reproval. ]

Mm.

[ At that, Byerly sits up and raises himself from the water. His smile doesn't falter for even a moment. He looks cheerful and casual. ]

My lady, shall we dry ourselves off?

That seems a proper course of action.

[ The timing is noted. Apart from that, being soaked entirely through, Alexandrie is fairly sure that such a thing will not occur until she is home—whether that means the Asgard estate or the apartments. She raises her hand, holding the previously waved handkerchief in it. ]

You may use this, if you like.

[ it is as entirely soaked as the rest of her. ]

How kind you are, my dearest.

[ He takes it from her with a small, seated bow - and then immediately starts using it to scrub at his armpits. ]

Bien sûr, mon cher.

[ She watches him with a sort of indulgent amusement for a bit, then pushes herself up to sitting, and with a slight struggle—with all her petticoats she is nearly too waterlogged to get up—to standing as well, although it is only to turn and sit on the ledge so that she can pull her skirts up far enough so they are out of the water, gather them, and make an attempt at squeezing as much liquid out of them as possible. It is only marginally effective, but water pours from the fabric under her hands in any case.

She chuckles. ]

Ah, now I am truly a ‘de la Fontaine.’

Ah -

[ He leans over, his brows knitted together. ]

Ma cherie, there's water in your shoes. [ duh. ] You can't walk home like this.

[ she looks down at her feet, which are still entirely submerged, and gasps in exaggerated shock, her gloveless hand flying to press to her chest. ]

Mon dieu, so there is. You are right, I shall never be able to return home again.

[ she delicately “wipes a tear” from her eye, and then squares her shoulders with a look of pained resolution. ]

I shall try bravely to acclimate to my new home. Perhaps I shall become a siren and lure those who stroll this garden to their watery fates.

[ a heartfelt sigh of deep remorse. ]

If only there were another way.

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