Chapter Text
To whom it may concern: We regret to inform you that God is dead, stated the first line of the invitation, which, as far as invitations go, definitely seemed an unconventional approach.
Not that Gideon was super well versed in receiving invitations, mind; invitations for her usually came in the form of a rude verbal threat from Crux, or a chilly verbal order from the Reverend Daughter herself, and in both cases she was usually being invited to scrub out the lavatories with hundred-year-old preserved baby fat so the appeal was a bit lacking.
Any other type of invitation she had experience with lived solely within the fictional confines of her frillier dirty magazines, wherein some House lady, or servant, or lady disguised as a servant, or servant disguised as a lady, would be invited to a fancy ball, and the main point of those invitations was always that someone got ravished in the boudoir. Or ravished against the wall. Or ravished on the very fancy dinner table. Or all three.
Absolutely none of them began with We regret to inform you that God is dead.
Also none of them were addressed To whom it may concern.
“To whom it may concern?” snipped Harrowhark Nonagesimus, who had apparently also caught that little detail and was none too pleased about it.
Gideon, for reasons yet to be explained to her, was currently standing with no small amount of awkwardness at a large table in the very hallowed (see: dingy) reaches of Harrowhark’s private library, Aiglamene beside her, Crux across from her, and the Reverend Daughter herself fidgeting and chewing on her thumbnail, a display of anxiety she would never show around anyone save the people in this room.
“None of the other Houses know anything about us, Reverend Daughter,” Crux placated. “They wouldn’t know who to address it to. Such is the price of secrecy, I’m afraid.”
“They could have at least managed a blanket ‘Dearest Ninth scion’,” Harrow muttered. “No matter. Read on, please.”
“To whom it may concern: We regret to inform you that God is dead,” Crux read for the second time, then looked questioningly toward the Reverend Daughter.
“Well?” Harrow prompted.
“You don’t…have any thoughts you might like to share?” Crux asked. “Perhaps pertaining to the first line?”
“What, to whom it may concern? I already said my piece, read on, please.”
“He’s talking about the ‘God is dead’ bit, bonehead,” Gideon muttered, then grunted when Aiglamene gave her a somewhat mechanical smack upside the head without looking at her.
“God isn’t dead, Griddle,” Harrow said. “It’s just an attention-grabbing first line designed to ensnare our interest. Crux, continue, please.”
Crux gave her a look of some concern, then read again, “To whom it may concern: We regret to inform you that God is dead. No really, he is.” Crux glanced up at Harrow, but when she only gave him an annoyed prompting eyebrow-raise, he went for a fourth and final go:
“To whom it may concern: We regret to inform you that God is dead. No really, he is. Every single one of you spoiled little House scion brats failed to respond to the Necrolord Prime’s summons to Lyctorhood three years ago, and with no one to provide reinforcements for him and his last remaining Saints, he was promptly devoured by a Resurrection Beast. Thank you all for nothing.
The only reason Dominicus remains alight and you remain alive is due to the Kindly Prince’s last remaining efforts as his holy body and soul were being dragged down into the swirling maw of what I can best describe as unfathomable horror. He developed a theorem that with any goddamn luck should keep the thing burning another good ten thousand years; longer, if we can keep the theorem going. In happier news, with God’s death, so dulled the threat of the Resurrection Beasts, a thing which you know nothing about. Bully for us.
It was the poorly-named King Undying’s dying wish that all Heads and scions of the Nine Houses be united as one at the holy grounds of Canaan House, where he will be eulogized, and his works made viewable to the public, while we, his last remaining Saints, strive to regain order to the universe now that God is dead. Thank you all again for failing the literal most basic task of keeping God alive. Absolutely stunning in your field, all of you.
In keeping with tradition, and perhaps this should go without saying but I am after all just the messenger, God instructed that for this funeral of sorts, each Head of House and/or House scion bring their cavalier primary as their honored guest. This will be a three-day mourning period, during which God urged that all Houses try to get along, and truly bond with their cavalier primary most of all, something that theoretically, you would have done already, but whatever.
A shuttle will be sent to you one week hence, which you will board, and take to Canaan House, else it’s dishonor on you, dishonor on your House, dishonor on your cow, et cetera.
Never mind, you’re all too young for the cow joke. Both of them.
Anyway. Attend the shuttles, children, for all the good that will do us. In his name, so on, so forth.
Due respect,
The Saint of Joy
P.S. - Saint of Patience here - I am realizing belatedly that those original summons to Lyctorhood you should have received three years ago may never have reached you on account of my forgetting to mail them. Sincerest apologies all around.
Ever yours,
-A
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, A.
-M
All eyes were on the Reverend Daughter now, the room silent save for the literal peeling of what may once have been wallpaper.
“So there’s a lot to unpack there,” Gideon said finally because someone needed to say something.
Harrow shook her head, looking dazed. “This can’t be right,” she said. “We can’t have missed a summons from the Emperor three years ago.”
“We didn’t—sounds like that Saint of Patience guy forgot to mail them.”
“You think a Lyctor, a Saint, God’s very hands and gestures, forgot to mail a summons from God himself.” Harrow shook her head again, brow drawn in deep thought as she narrowed her eyes down at the letter. “No, this is a test,” she decided at last.
“A test?”
“A test of devotion. Faith. God himself wrote this, I’m sure of it.”
“Reverend Daughter,” Crux interjected hesitantly. “This says God is dead.”
“God isn’t dead, that’s not possible,” Harrow said, voice becoming sharp and quite a bit louder than normal. “There is only one thing that can kill God, and last I checked—” Harrow broke off here, a little twitch to her eye. Once she’d gathered herself, she said in more measured tones, “Unless someone in this room has taken it upon themselves to undergo unspeakable agony to unleash what lies beyond the Locked Tomb, God is not dead. I don’t know what a Resurrection Beast is, but I assure you it has nothing on…what lies beyond the Locked Tomb. God, I’m sure, is in fine health. This is a test. Or perhaps more accurately, this is a summons—one likely to take the place of that which the…Saint of Patience…may not have mailed three years ago as they were supposed to.”
“So what’s the plan here, Reverend Daughter?” Aiglamene asked.
“The plan? Well I attend of course.”
“Hey. Question,” Gideon piped up, lifting up a hand. “What exactly am I doing here?”
Harrow exchanged a look with Aiglamene, some silent communication taking place between the two of them. “While the letter was addressed…to whom it may concern…the envelope itself was written to the attention of the Ninth House scion, and their cavalier primary,” she told her at last.
Gideon considered her for a long moment, then said, “So…I don’t know if you’re starting to lose your vision now that you’ve hit the big 2-0, but uh…” She affected what she thought was the best approximation of the Jungle Man voice she’d just read in her most recent comic book and put her hand to her chest. “Me, Gideon.” She pointed in a general outward direction toward nobody. “Ortus, cavalier primary.” She lifted her hands in a show of confusion. “Where Ortus?”
“What the hell are you doing with your voice?”
“I’m not your cavalier primary, Nonagesimus!” Gideon exclaimed, both expecting and taking with good grace the mechanical smack upside the head from Aiglamene.
“Show some respect, Nav, or Crux will start waxing poetic about blacking your eyes,” her teacher warned dryly.
“What’s to black my eyes about? I’m not wrong! I’m not the Reverend Daughter’s cavalier primary! I’m not her cavalier anything! I’m not even her primary anything!”
“Save perhaps for the primary pain in my ass,” said Harrow. “The unfortunate fact, Griddle, is that I have given Ortus Nigenad some…time off…to attend his mental faculties.”
Gideon raised her eyebrows. “Do cavaliers get time off?”
“When their mothers sob at my feet so violently that their tears, mucous, and spittle get all over my shoes, they do,” said Harrow, flinching at the very memory. “I need you to fill in for him.”
“Excuse me?”
“What, starting to lose your hearing now that you’ve hit the big 2-1?”
“Hilarious. I’m rolling.”
“I need you to act the part,” Harrow said. “This is a faux funeral, you can be my faux cavalier.”
“It’s not a faux funeral, God’s super dead, and I would rather eat my sword than be your cavalier.” This was a bluff. Gideon would not eat her sword. She loved her sword. She sent a silent apology its way so it knew she was just being facetious.
“It will get you off-planet, Griddle,” Harrow pointed out. “Isn’t that what you’re always griping about? Aside from when you’re griping about literally everything else?” She angled her head. “If this is indeed a summons under false pretenses as I suspect, this could present you with an opportunity to make something of your life. I can guarantee nothing, but if we’re honest, your only other option is eternal lavatory duty here, and I have to believe that isn’t your greatest aspiration. Besides. You’ll get to wear a fancy sword.”
“I don’t want a fancy sword. I want my two-hander.”
“Too fucking bad.” Harrow let out a slow, measured breath. “Listen. The Ninth House needs to make an impression. We’ve been…absent…the rest of the House system for too long. I need to make our presence known, and make that presence a show of strength, and frankly, compared to Ortus, you’re…that is…when it comes to appearances, you…” She gestured in a sort of round-about way at Gideon’s entire body. “That’s to say that in order to present a strong front, you have a…a physique that’s more…”
“I’ll be better arm candy,” Gideon said.
Harrow gave her a withering look. “It’s not a date, Griddle, you’re not meant to be arm candy,” she said flatly. “But you will make a more…striking…impression.”
Gideon tapped her lip in thought. “Welllllll, I suppose, given that you just called me striking—”
“I didn’t call you striking, I said you’d make a striking impression—”
“—Called me striking,” Gideon said again, “and basically said I have the physique of a god…”
“I said absolutely none of the above.”
“Because you just said explicitly and in no uncertain terms that I am incredibly sexy, muscular, and the greatest swordswoman that ever lived…I guess I can be your date to God’s funeral,” Gideon said.
Harrow blew out a breath, stirring the strands of hair framing her face that had grown several inches too long in the past few months. She looked at Crux. “I’ve made a huge mistake, haven’t I,” she said.
“Your words, Reverend Daughter.”
Harrow turned her attention to Aiglamene. “We have a week,” she said. “Can you try to…fix…” She gestured at Gideon, “…this?”
“I’m not a miracle-worker, Reverend Daughter,” said Aiglamene. “But I will do my best.”
*
All things considered, Gideon thought she cleaned up pretty nice.
Then Harrow made her slather paint all over her face to make it look like a skull and she looked completely deranged. But briefly, she cleaned up pretty nice.
On first impressions when they landed, the First House was darker than she’d expected it to be.
“That’s because it’s nighttime, Griddle,” Harrow told her with no small amount of impatience as they stood awkwardly outside the doors to the atrium of Canaan House while the little welcoming First House Priest issued some quick orders to the gathering of skeleton servants a few paces away. “We’re turned away from Dominicus at present. Give it a few hours and it’ll be completely blinding, and blue. So I’ve read.”
“Seems dramatic.”
“Agreed.” Harrow looked her over. “Griddle, I don’t know how many times I have to say this—stand up straight, would you.”
“I am standing up straight, you stand up straight.”
“I could not possibly be standing straighter.”
“Oh right. You’re just short.”
“Griddle. Look me in the eye.”
Gideon rolled her eyes, but did as she was told.
“Do not blow this for me,” Harrow said, holding up a warning finger. “I need you on your best behavior. The Heads and scions of all other Houses are behind these doors, as are their cavaliers. There may even be a Lyctor.”
“Or God’s corpse.”
“God isn’t dead, Griddle.” She took a fortifying breath. “When we go in there, I will be required to mingle. I may be required to make small talk. I may even be required to partake in consuming a small plateful of tiny and faintly ridiculous snacks. I need you to not…embarrass me, while I attempt to do so.”
Gideon looked her over closely, then grinned. “You’re nervous,” she realized.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Yes you are, look at you. That accusatory finger you’re jabbing at me is shaking. Aw, Harrow, you feeling shy?”
“I am not shy or nervous, I am the Reverend Fucking Daughter,” snapped the Reverend Fucking Daughter, nevertheless withdrawing what was definitely a shaking hand back into the folds of her robes.
“Look, if it makes you feel better, I’m a little nervous too,” offered Gideon kindly. “Obviously I’m a lot cooler about it, but, y’know, you’re in good company.”
Harrow chewed on her lower lip for a second, then seemed to remember it was covered in paint and desisted.
It was, however briefly, a somewhat vulnerable look, something Gideon had seen only once in her life— on Harrow’s nineteenth birthday, when she’d come to Gideon’s cell with a bottle of champagne and an armful of broken confessions she’d tried the following day to forget she’d ever made.
It was for this vulnerable expression only that Gideon offered her arm. “Shall we, my penumbral lady?” she asked far more gently than she would ordinarily.
Harrow’s arm moved minutely, almost as if she was about to accept, then she froze, frowning. “You’re meant to walk behind me, Griddle, not take my arm,” she said. “As previously discussed, you are not in fact my date.”
“Suit yourself,” Gideon said, fading back the appropriate distance behind her necromancer as the doors began to open. “Let’s do this thingy.”
Harrow shot her a look. “Please refrain from calling God’s funeral a ‘thingy’,” she requested.
*
Thoroughly unlike any other funeral Gideon had ever taken part in, God’s funeral was probably better described as a party.
Not at first. At first, there was the procession, the prayer, the three straight hours worth of eulogies from people who were apparently super-duper important…Gideon was definitely not listening. Bummer that God was dead, but on the whole, she wasn’t seeing much of a difference between God being alive and now. So. She wasn’t thrilled that there would be further eulogizing over the course of the next two days.
But. After the stiff stuff, the place turned into a goddamn swanky soiree. The wide atrium was filled with people—not just Heads and scions and their cavaliers, but servants, retainers…and everyone was chatting, and drinking, and they were dressed in colors—colors you’d never see on the Ninth, stuff she thought only existed in her comic books.
All this aside, it was hard to ignore the fact that, in the dead center of the giant atrium, there was a glass coffin raised on a beautifully decked-out ebony and ivory platform, decorated in rows upon rows of vibrant flowers, with a very, very dead guy laid elegantly inside it.
Harrow’s jaw set as they stood before it. “That could be anyone,” she muttered primly.
“Yeah. Like. God. ‘Cause God is dead,” Gideon muttered back.
“The letter said God was devoured by a Resurrection Beast,” Harrow huffed. “How would they have retrieved a body from the entrails of a Resurrection Beast?”
“I don’t know—I don’t even really know what a Resurrection Beast is. Do you?”
“Not…precisely. But I have a hard time believing it would be a simple task to just…open one up to retrieve a body it had devoured—let alone to find the body completely intact.”
This was technically a fair point. Fortunately Gideon was saved from having to come up with a response as the little welcoming First House Priest tottered over.
“Ninth!” he said with an awful lot of glee for someone at a funeral. “Why so sequestered? Now is the time to mingle with the other Houses as you have been so long removed from our bosom!”
Gideon did a very good job of only snorting a little at the word bosom, and therefore receiving only a small jab of one sharp elbow to her ribs.
“Reverend Daughter, if you will be so kind as to accompany me,” the Priest carried on like he hadn’t witnessed this exchange, “the Warden of the Sixth House has requested an audience with you. Ninth cav…why not check out the display of the fallen Lyctors’ finest swords! They’ve been a hit with the other cavs.”
That actually did sound tempting. But leaving Harrow, literally the only person she knew at this thing…?
She and Harrow both made embarrassing eye contact with each other Gideon told herself firmly was not panic or urgency or clinginess.
“Come, you two,” the little Priest cajoled, “I feel like a schoolteacher separating two chattering friends in a classroom too enamored with each other to pay attention to the lesson! I understand it’s hard to venture beyond the safety of a close and trusting friendship such as yours in such a new setting, but you really must broaden your social horizons!”
There were so many simultaneously incorrect and hilarious things the Priest had just said, Gideon couldn’t even come up with a good retort if she’d been permitted to give one. The best she could do was try to stifle another snort, at which point Harrow gave her foot a sharp nudge with her own.
That said, as Harrow was drawn away and Gideon found herself standing awkwardly alone in front of God’s glass coffin…she kinda would’ve preferred to have Harrow with her. Having someone to insult and be insulted by was way better than having no one but a dead God to stare at.
She wandered over toward the sword display, mostly just for something to do and to appear less out of place, realizing as she went that many eyes flicked over to her before returning to whoever they were talking to, and their voices would suddenly go quite low; it occurred to her with a hot rush of humiliation that they were definitely talking about her. Yes, everyone point and spill that hot goss; behold the rare sight of a Ninth House pseudo cavalier dressed up like a skeleton with a snappy jacket and a flimsy little sword better suited for picking one’s teeth than doing any real damage. She felt like an idiot.
On edge and uncomfortably hot, she couldn’t even find it in herself to get excited about the sword display, instead finding herself drifting toward the buffet table. She stared for a long time at what she heard one of the younger guests refer to with great glee as a “Chocolate fondue fountain!”
She didn’t quite trust it, so instead studied it for a bit. Sized it up. Tried not to be intimidated as she held a small slice of fruit under its bubbling, cascading walls like she’d seen the other guests do.
It was at this point, possibly because she was lingering longer than most, that she overheard the beginnings of what might have been an interesting conversation between those she had come to know through the lengthy wake procession as the Saint of Joy, and the Saint of Patience. The two of them were cloistered together at the far end of the table, stabbing up little snacks onto their paper plates in just a bitch of a temper. Gideon strained her ears to hear over the bubble of the chocolate fondue fountain.
“Well if this isn’t the biggest fucking cock-up in the history of the universe,” muttered the Saint of Joy.
“I don’t know that I’d say biggest,” said the Saint of Patience.
“Oh no? What, Augustine, you’ve done worse than orchestrate God’s death before we’d finished instituting a solid backup plan for the survival of humanity, potentially dooming all of existence to whatever Hell lies beyond the River?”
“To be fair, you didn’t know me in undergrad.”
“I wish I didn’t know you at all. God this is such a shitty day.” And here the Saint of Joy burst into an explosion of angry tears lasting all of five seconds before going stony again. “We should have waited. We should have made sure all the evacuations were under way, kept him distracted by playing out his stupid baby Lyctor fantasy, remembered to actually send the invitations for said baby Lyctor fantasy—we should at bare fucking minimum have had a good replacement set up for God before he was prematurely dropped directly into the path of an R fucking B—”
“What’s done is done, Mercy my love, it’s fucked. You’re fucked, I’m fucked, John’s well fucked—this is all we have, my dear. Hate him, honor him, mourn him, love him, embrace the spiral. We’re in uncharted territory now. Anyway the crab cakes are to die for, have you had any?”
“Ninth, is it?” came a sudden booming voice beside Gideon, jarring her out of her eavesdropping so violently she dropped her fruit slice into the fondue fountain, and the two Lyctors, startled as well, shot a nasty look in her direction before melting haughtily back toward God’s coffin.
Gideon wheeled toward the source of her intruder’s voice to find a beaming, open-faced man in his early forties, dressed in the fanciest attire Gideon had ever seen, standing a little awkwardly before her. He hesitated a moment, smile faltering slightly as he was met with the full blast effect of the Ninth death’s head regalia, then seemed to make a determined effort to put it back in place, and he extended his hand.
“Magnus Quinn,” he introduced himself. “Cavalier primary to the Fifth House. I noticed you earlier enjoying the, er…coffin!”
Enjoying was an interesting way of phrasing it, but Gideon could tell he was making an earnest attempt to make her feel welcome, as opposed to literally everyone else here. So, temporarily pushing the odd conversation she’d just overheard to the back of her mind, she gave a sort of nod, and shook his hand, which made his smile brighten considerably.
“Got lots of coffins where you’re from, I’m sure,” he went on, looking hopeful that this was a good topic of conversation for someone of the Ninth House. “Tombs and such. Got an eye for good coffin craftsmanship, I’d imagine.”
“It…yeah…?” Gideon said, voice a bit of an awkward croak.
“I was just thinking, putting a body in a glass coffin,” Magnus continued, “seems risky for exposure. But I guess we can say that, ha, remains to be seen.”
He paused here, eyes bright.
“Remains to be seen,” he said again.
Gideon’s lips pressed together in uncertainty.
“Remains…because it’s the Emperor’s remains, as in his corpse, and…to be seen, as in, we can see those remains through the glass, it’s…see it’s a play on words,” explained Magnus, visibly deflating as his joke fell flat.
“…Oh. Oh!” Gideon said, as the joke finally hit her. She snorted a little, which felt like a strange thing to do with someone she didn’t know, made her feel a bit naked, but honestly that kinda tickled her. “Remains to be seen. Yeah.”
Magnus’s face lit up again and he looked relieved. “I was afraid you’d know that one already,” he said. “Probably buried in tomb jokes on the Ninth, eh?”
Jokes? On the Ninth?
“Uh…”
Magnus looked at her hopefully, eyes wide and sparkling.
“…Let’s just say humor’s a…dying art…on the Ninth,” Gideon said.
An ecstatic grin split Magnus’s face. “Ah! I see what you did!” he exclaimed. “Come with me, you have to meet my wife! Greatest historian there ever was—I’ll bet she could tell you some spectacular old Ninth House humor! Oh, and the Fourth children, of course—listen, if you want to see two teens squirm like they’re having their teeth pulled, just watch this…”
And so Gideon was led into the crowd to meet Magnus’s acquaintances.
They were a mixed bag, honestly. His wife was fantastic; the two Fourth House teens were…dreadful, but seeing them squirm was admittedly hilarious; the Second House captain and her cavalier were intimidating as hell, and made Gideon think twice about her lifelong aspirations of joining the Cohort for fear of what it would do to her spine and her sense of humor; she would be thrilled never to meet the judgy Eighth House adept or his musclebound nephew again; and she was seized with the instantaneous desires both to mess up the hair of the Third House cavalier, and propose marriage to the Third House Crown Princess, but feared violent retribution from the Crown Princess’s much paler twin, who had a decidedly possessive arm draped around her sister’s waist.
“Seems the Sixth and Seventh have your adept’s ear,” said Magnus, looking across the room to where Harrow was…not exactly mingling with the young bespectacled man and his cavalier beside a sweet-faced young woman on crutches and hers…but Harrow did seem engaged at least, which was pretty good for her.
One thing she would say as Magnus introduced her by name to each tiny and faintly ridiculous snack at the buffet table…this place had just ruined her for food. She could never go back now. She piled her plate high with those tiny and faintly ridiculous snacks and chowed down like a starving woman. Amazing. Best funeral ever.
It was nearly an entire half hour before Harrow sought her out.
Magnus turned at her approach, and he offered a smile, too quickly for Gideon to warn him that his charm would not work on the tiny bundle of evil headed his way as it had for Gideon.
“Reverend Daughter,” he greeted enthusiastically. “Magnus Quinn, cavalier primary to the Fifth. I’ve just been speaking with your cavalier!”
Harrow halted, eyebrows raising. “My sympathies,” she said.
Magnus laughed heartily. “And you said humor was a dying art on the Ninth,” he chuckled at Gideon. When Harrow did not join in on the laugh, he cleared his throat. “Well. Guess I’ll just…think I heard Abigail…coming, darling!”
Gideon and Harrow watched him retreat, Gideon feeling a little disappointed, Harrow looking a little disgusted.
“Darling,” Harrow said. “He called her darling, did you hear that?”
“Well she is his wife. You kinda hope in those situations they sorta like each other.”
“She’s his necromancer,” Harrow said.
“Yeah, and his wife. It’s sweet.”
“It’s unseemly,” Harrow disagreed. “It’s not how adepts and cavaliers are supposed to work.”
“We’re not how adepts and cavaliers are supposed to work,” Gideon pointed out. “Y’know, since I’m not a fucking cavalier.”
“Could you say that louder please, Griddle, I’d love the entire room to know.”
“Or,” Gideon said, ignoring this, “are you just grossed out by it because you’re picturing yourself and Ortus in a similar situation?”
“That would never be an issue on the Ninth, because unlike the Fifth, we have a sense of fucking propriety,” Harrow clipped out, and it was clear Gideon had just popped an unpleasant image in her adept’s head.
“Or,” Gideon said again, “are you not disgusted at all, but envious, because you’re imagining me instead, now that I’m your totally legit cavalier.” She leaned in. “Are you blushing under your face paint?”
Harrow’s jaw worked, nostrils flared. “You’ll want to take a step back, Griddle,” she said.
“Would you call me darling?” Gideon pressed. “Whisk me off to a new funeral every weekend to dance the night away? Whisper sweet nothings in the shadows of the graveyard?”
Harrow plucked up one of the tiny almonds from Gideon’s plate and flicked it at her forehead.
“Ow,” Gideon laughed, scrubbing her hand at the point of impact. It didn’t hurt—was in fact one of Harrow’s more pitiful acts of aggression.
“That’s not how adepts and cavaliers work,” Harrow said again. “You’ve been reading too many of those godawful pornographic magazines of yours.”
“Or have you not been reading enough? Ow.” That was another almond to the forehead, equally as painless, and equally as funny.
“One was more than enough, thank you,” Harrow said stiffly.
“One was…” Gideon’s mouth formed a slow O as realization dawned at the same time Harrow’s eyes went wide at what was definitely an accidental revelation. “Harrowhark Nonagesimus, you sly little minx! Did you read my porn?”
“I di—Crux confiscated one from you as punishment for that time you stole my theorems notebook.”
“I thought it was your diary, like obviously I was gonna read that, but that’s not the point. You just said you looked through one of my skin mags! Which one? What’d you think? Did you just look at the pictures or did you read the stories—sometimes they get some excellent writers in those things. High art. Poetry. Award-worthy. Tasty as hell.” She made a chef’s kiss gesture here.
Harrow made a face. “Tasty?”
“I don’t know, I’m still kinda hungry. Which one did you look at though, seriously?”
“What does it matter?”
“Oh shit, it was a necro-cav one, wasn’t it—you read it! You didn’t just look at the pictures, you fucking read it! You sat that bony little butt of yours down, and used that nerdy little brain of yours to read my porn. This is actually the best day of my life, Harrow, for real.”
“Walking away now, before I cause you bodily harm in front of everyone and make a scene.”
“Wait—waitwaitwait, Harrow—” Gideon bounded and angled in front of her with a grin. “You gotta tell me—when you were reading it, did you think about how I also read it, and how we both basically read porn together—did you think about me? Did you get like super embarrassed?”
“Griddle, the disrespect you’re exhibiting right now is verging on a whipping offense.”
“Whipping offense?” Gideon echoed, absolutely delighted, then lowered her voice. “Damn, if I’d known that’s what you’re into—I’ve actually got a very special collection of mags dedicated solely to that—you’re welcome to borrow from it at any time, you just gotta ask really, really nicely.”
“Griddle—”
“Pardon—it’s me again,” came a voice and they both froze, turning to find both Magnus and his wife standing before them. “Sorry to interrupt, you two looked like you were having a good time—”
(“How?” Harrow seethed under her breath)
“But I thought you both might like to know, Abigail will be leading us all in a jig from her hometown in just a few moments,” Magnus said.
“And afterward, the Saint of Patience said he wished to lead us all in a haka he learned from the Emperor himself,” Abigail added. “If you’d like to join us.”
“You’re going to dance. At a funeral,” Harrow said slowly.
“Of course,” Magnus said, looking back and forth between them in surprise. “Is that not…how you…?”
Gideon gave a short bark of a laugh. “Oh my God, that’s so funny, no, our funerals back home are so lame compared to this,” she said. “God, imagine Crux…” She turned to Harrow. “What do you say, darling? Care to join me in a dance?”
“Not even if it would bring God back from the dead,” Harrow said through gritted teeth.
“Oh come on, lighten up, it’s a funeral,” Gideon said with a wink, then tossed an almond up in the air and caught it in her mouth.
Magnus gave a tremendous belly laugh. “It’s so nice to see an adept and cavalier with this type of candor,” he said jovially. “Too often everyone finds themselves falling into roles. But I’ve always believed adepts and their cavaliers are at their strongest when they can be themselves completely unfettered around each other. No masks, no walls. Just their honest, stripped-down, bare selves.”
Stripped-down bare selves, Gideon mouthed at Harrow, who shot her a murderous look in return.
“I used to throw almonds at Magnus during gatherings too,” Abigail said pleasantly.
This shut Gideon up as much as it shut Harrow up.
“Well? Sir Gideon?” asked Magnus, offering her his arm.
“Sir Magnus,” Gideon said in kind, accepting. She handed her half-empty plate to Harrow with her other hand. “Guard that for me while I’m gone, would ya, doll?”
Harrow chose instead to drop it on the ground. “Oops,” she said blandly. “I’m sure you’ll be fine to lick it up off the floor when you get back.”
“If it so pleases you, my liege,” Gideon returned with a little flourished bow as she let Magnus lead her over to the dance.
*
An hour later and Gideon had decided fuck being a cavalier, fuck the Cohort—she was gonna spring herself from the Ninth and be a dancer. She could not remember a single time in her life when she’d had even half as much fun, even a quarter, a tenth, a thousand, a billionth—dancing, as far as she was concerned, was simply the best invention in all of human history.
She wondered if she could convince Harrow to liven up some skeletons and have them perform a jig or a haka or a conga line or something called the macarena for the next Ninth muster.
And even the waltzing bit after the group dances? That was a little intense, extremely up close and personal, but exciting in its own way. She’d danced with Magnus, then Abigail, then she’d been introduced to the Seventh House adept and danced as delicately with her as she could while telling herself firmly this was not a great time to fall in love with someone, then she’d looked over thinking she might dare herself to ask the Third Crown Princess to dance only to find that she was more or less wrapped up with…her sister. So. Gideon was gonna be thinking about that. For. A bit.
Finally taking a break, she found her way back to Harrow, who was back in deep discussion with the Sixth House adept and his cavalier; the cavalier in question didn’t look terribly intimidating on the outside, but she nonetheless gave off an air of equanimity that seemed very capable of turning into hurricane-like violence at the drop of a hat. Gideon decided she wanted to be just like her when she grew up.
“Yo, Harrow,” Gideon said once she’d reached her, sweaty and a little breathless. “Wanna dance? It’s super fun.”
Harrow gave the Sixth adept and cavalier a curt jerk of her head Gideon guessed was supposed to be the equivalent of a polite farewell, then grabbed Gideon’s arm and pulled her over to a deserted corner of the room.
“Friendly reminder not to address me with terms like ‘yo’ while we’re here,” Harrow hissed. “Friendly reminder also that you are to show utmost respect and refer to me as Reverend Daughter, and Reverend Daughter only.”
“Reverend Daughter only, when have I ever shown you respect?”
“I’m asking for three days, that’s all,” Harrow said, sounding not just exasperated, but…honestly stressed. Real, earnest stress, that wasn’t just due to Gideon’s antics. “In fact, we’re practically down to two days at this point. Could you at least try? Believe it or not I’m trying to do something important for my people while we’re here. I’m trying to establish political ties, and trade agreements, and I can tell you right now, making the Ninth an appealing trade partner? Not as easy as I’d thought.”
“Why, because our only natural resources are bones, snow leeks and depression?”
Harrow let out a measured breath, but conceded, “More or less.”
“Y’know, I was talking to Magnus and Abigail and they were telling me all about these things called tourist attractions,” Gideon said, with a teasing curve of her lips. “We could totally turn the Locked Tomb into a tourist attraction, sell tickets, merch…Y’know, now that God’s dead, so we don’t really have to worry about the dead hottie you’re in love with killing him…”
Harrow reached up and clapped her hand over Gideon’s mouth. “Have you completely lost your mind,” she gritted out, “or did I just give you critical brain damage when we were children?”
“No, you were more the try to scratch my face off while I tried to strangle you type,” Gideon said, wrestling her mouth free of Harrow’s hand. “Crux is probably the one who gave me the critical brain damage.”
“There are certain words that came out of my mouth that night when I came to you and I was…”
“Sloshed.”
“Compromised—”
“You stumbled into my cell on your nineteenth birthday with a near-empty bottle of champagne, and by way of hello you slurred, I am two hundred dead babies and I’m in love with God’s incarnate demise, move over Griddle, I have words and bubbles. Then you sat your bony little ass down on my cot—actually on me for a second before you slipped off onto the mattress—and told me some shit.”
“And that shit was meant to stay between us,” Harrow hissed. “In fact, I should never have told you at all, except that I was…”
“Sloshed.”
“Compromised.” Harrow gave a very slow exhale. “There are certain things that must never ever be brought up again, let alone in a public place. Or that is a whipping offense, and not of the warped sexual fantasy variety that lives in your stupid magazines. I’m talking about the variety where I literally tan the flesh from your bones. And in any case.” She crossed her arms, chin lifting primly. “She’s not…The girl in the Tomb, she’s not a dead hottie. She’s…beautiful. Hottie implies…carnality.”
“So let it be carnality, weirdo, may as well,” Gideon said, rolling her eyes. “You wanna bang a dead chick, that’s fine, plenty of other freaks here who are attracted to people I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be attracted to.”
For no reason at all she glanced over at the Third twins—who were no longer dancing, but arguing, the golden one angry enough she was verging on tears, the paler one stroking her face and saying platonic sisterish things like I don’t mean to make you angry, sweetheart, you’re just so beautiful when you’re flushed like that, please touch me, I’ll die, and the golden one was replying with an I hate you, don’t touch me, I love you, I need you, then throwing herself into her pale sister’s arms, burying her face in her neck and promptly eating a piece of her hair.
So. Gideon wasn’t really sure what to do with that one.
“I’m not carnally attracted to the girl in the Tomb,” Harrow was saying stiffly. “Not —not really. And selling tickets to the Tomb as a tourist attraction is a non-starter; the journey into the Tomb alone would kill them.”
“Harrow, I was obviously joking. You’re stressed as hell, I’m just…trying to add a little levity.”
“By bringing up two of the most stressful secrets of my past in a public place.”
“Okay, you know I don’t have the social skills to know how to comfort someone. Also my instinct is to make you uncomfortable. It’s really hard to do both those things at once. Seriously, do you want to dance?”
Harrow blinked at her incredulously at the abrupt change of topic. “No. Griddle. I don’t want to dance. I believe my actual words were ‘Not even if it would bring God back from the dead,’ which…you won’t believe this, Griddle, but I’m actually starting to think he may in fact be dead.”
“You’re blowing my mind here, Harrow.”
Harrow looked like she was about to say something more, then broke off as the Seventh House adept approached them.
“Ninth,” she greeted, smiling. “Reverend Daughter, I hope you don’t mind my asking your cavalier to dance earlier. My condition typically bars me from things like dancing, but your cavalier was very gracious and put up with my clumsiness.”
Harrow flinched a little. “I suppose she is useful to lean against if you need someone with more muscle than sense.”
The Seventh House adept laughed merrily, putting a familiar hand on Gideon’s arm. “She’s a natural. I’m surprised I haven’t seen the two of you on the floor together.”
Harrow flinched again, eyes flicking down to the hand the Seventh House had resting on Gideon’s bicep. “Probably because the Ninth doesn’t…do…dancing,” she said.
“Well what better time to learn?”
“Than at a funeral?”
The Seventh House adept shrugged good-naturedly. “If you change your mind, your cavalier is quite the unexpected talent,” she said, and Gideon preened a little.
“My cavalier is also made primarily of sweat now, and the grand majority of her sacramental face paint has dripped off, so I’m afraid dancing is no longer on the table,” Harrow told her tersely. “But I’m glad you were able to…enjoy her.”
The Seventh House adept gave her a patient smile, kind and unruffled by Harrow’s bad humor. “Try to have a good time, Reverend Daughter,” she said. “It was the Emperor’s wish that the Houses get along, and that adepts and their cavaliers bond. I, unfortunately, am exhausted and must retire to my rooms. But it was good to meet you both.”
She tottered off with her hulk of a cavalier, leaving Gideon and Harrow alone again.
Gideon turned to her adept. “What the hell was that?” she asked.
“What the hell was what?”
“Are you jealous? Gideon asked bluntly.
“Excuse me?”
“You are. You’re jealous I danced with the Seventh House adept.”
“I’m not jealous. This is simply neither the time nor place for frivolity. On an unrelated note, I forbid you to dance with anyone else.”
“Harrow.” Gideon gave a slanted smile. “I hate to break it to you, short stack, but you don’t get to be mean to me, and then get all butt-hurt when someone else is nice to me.”
Harrow drew herself up as tall as her tiny body would allow, probably to combat the short stack comment. “Actually, I do get to do that,” she snipped. “In fact, I get to do whatever I want with you, as I am your adept, and you are my cavalier.”
“I’m not your cavalier, though, am I.”
“For the next two days you are, which means you do what I say, and I say no more dancing with anyone, for reasons unrelated to the Seventh House adept. Now come. We adjourn to the library.”
Gideon gave a surprised laugh. “What? You want to sneak out of God’s funeral to go to a library?”
“Yes. I’m glad the Seventh House adept brought up the invitation; she was correct when she said it stated the Emperor wished us all to get along and bond—but it also said his works were being made available to us. We have two days. I plan to make use of that time to learn everything I can, unlike every other simpering moron in here. As my cavalier, you are to accompany me. Attend.”
She began to sweep from the room, and Gideon, confused in about twelve different directions, but finding her clipped attitude kinda funny nonetheless, followed her.
*
The library was gigantic. Gideon would almost hate seeing that many books in one place, except that she found one hilarious little book that was a preserved relic anthology of dirty jokes from pre-fucking-Resurrection. She would be keeping that one for herself. Because God totally would’ve wanted that for her, and who was she to deny God’s wishes?
The other book she got a kick out of was one detailing some old party customs on other Houses.
“Harrow,” she said, plopping down across from her adept at the large table in the center of the library and resting her feet up on the edge. “Harrow, listen to this.”
“Griddle, don’t…put your feet up on God’s table…”
“He’s dead, he won’t mind. Listen, though.” She flipped the little book of House customs around for Harrow to see. “Apparently there’s this old tradition where at certain House balls, cavs and adepts would go swapsies for a night.”
Harrow scowled. “Swapsies. How would that even work? Cavaliers aren’t necromantic, and necromancers aren’t…” she waved her hand.
“Can’t lift for shit?” Gideon filled in.
“We’re unconcerned with the physical limitations of the body,” Harrow corrected. “Anyway, that’s a stupid idea for a party. What would that even entail?”
“I don’t know,” Gideon shrugged. “Probably just role reversal. Like you’d have to do everything I say. Also you’d have to wear a dainty little sword. I could probably order you to fight a duel to the death for my honor and watch you trip all over your feet.” She sighed wistfully. “God that image just tickles me.”
“Right, well while you have been reading garbage, I have unlocked three new theorems I never thought possible,” Harrow told her haughtily. “It wouldn’t kill you to attempt some sort of self-education as well while we’re here.”
“It would, actually, as I would probably bore myself into so friggin deep of a coma, I’d be mistaken for a corpse and end up getting buried alongside God. So I’ll stick to my dirty jokes and my funny party customs, thanks.”
Harrow made a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat and returned to whatever boring-as-balls necro nerd stuff she was flipping through, so Gideon got up to look through the shelves in case there were more funny books. A somewhat companionable silence fell between them, which was unexpected and kinda nice.
“This actually isn’t so bad,” she commented after a moment.
Harrow lifted her eyes to Gideon, one eyebrow cocked.
“Just, it’s kinda cool seeing the other Houses, like what they’re all about,” Gideon clarified.
“They’re…colorful,” Harrow said diplomatically, getting up and shelving her book. She turned to face Gideon. “As to what they’re about, I’d like you to tread carefully. There are those among them who believe we shouldn’t exist at all, let alone that we set foot on hallowed ground to honor God in what may or may not be his death. I’d especially like you to keep clear of the Eighth House.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice. Guy’s creepy as hell.”
Harrow was chewing musingly on her lower lip, deep in thought. It was…weird, to see her like this. Establishing political ties? Trade agreements? Really any type of interaction taking place outside their dark little corner of the universe? Trying to keep that dark little corner afloat? Gideon wouldn’t even know where to begin with that one.
“What about the others?” she asked, breaking Harrow out of her reverie. “You seemed to be getting along with that Sixth guy.”
“The Sixth House could prove a capable ally,” Harrow said. “Intellectually, at least. They’re somewhat lacking in resources too, however, at least when it comes to the type that could refill coffers and restore the Ninth. The Seventh seems open to negotiations. The Fourth…children still, I’m not sure of them. We have very little to offer the Second, and vice versa. From a financial standpoint our best bets would be the Fifth and the Third, but that would take a calculated approach—I don’t want either of them sniffing out that we’re as…in need…as we are. And we have very little to offer that they would find desirable. I don’t want them sensing a weakness in us that they could exploit.”
“I don’t think Abigail and Magnus seem like the type to exploit.”
Harrow rolled her eyes. “Abigail and Magnus. I believe that’s Lady Abigail Pent and Sir Magnus Quinn to you. To both of us, in fact.”
“Sure. What do you think of them, though?”
“I still find their necro-cav relationship embarrassingly sentimental and inappropriate,” Harrow said stubbornly. “But I suppose you’re right in your assessment that they don’t seem particularly cutthroat.”
“And the Third?”
“Charismatic, welcoming, and nothing but trouble,” Harrow said.
Gideon grinned. “Yeah, I got that sense, too.” She shifted her gaze around just to be absolutely sure no one else was in here, then said, “Okay, I gotta ask though, because it’s gonna drive me crazy if I don’t: the Tridentarii.”
“What about the Tridentarii?”
“Do you think they’re like…” Gideon made a long and perhaps overly complicated entangling gesture with her hands.
Harrow mirrored her, questioningly. “What does that mean?”
“Y’know, like…” Gideon added more entanglement to her hands with more rolling and finger-wiggling.
Harrow mirrored her again with a wary expression. “Words, Nav, please.”
“Do you think they’re like…definitely boinking?”
Harrow came to an abrupt halt in her mirroring and dropped her hands down to her sides, expression frosting over. “You are a complete hog, Nav,” she said flatly. A beat went by and then she blew out a breath with a defeated eye-roll and said, “Though honestly—yes, right?”
“Right?”
“Pray they aren’t actually,” Harrow said. “Or at least pray we never find out.”
“Speak for yourself.”
This earned her a light whap to the arm with the back of Harrow’s hand.
“I’m kidding. Mostly,” Gideon said.
A deep exhale as Harrow looked her over critically. “No, what you are is a mess,” she said. “Your face paint is practically melted off. I need you to fix it before you leave this room and are seen by anyone.”
“It’s not like I’m just carrying around some spare paint in my pockets, Harrow.”
“You can use mine, then.”
Gideon watched with a complete lack of surprise as Harrow dug out a small compact from somewhere mysterious in her robes.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing toward the table.
Gideon rolled her eyes, but plopped herself down obediently in the chair, tilting her head up so Harrow could reapply the face paint.
“Ow—stab me in the eyeball, why don’t you,” she grunted as Harrow applied black under her eyelid.
“Well if you’d hold fucking still.”
“I am holding still, you’re being too aggressive. Ow!” Without thinking, Gideon gave Harrow a retaliatory jab in the side with her fingers in response to a particularly rough swipe of face paint, so Harrow flicked her in the center of the forehead in re-retaliation.
“You know, I was talking with the kids from the Fourth—they’d call what you’re doing to me bullying,” Gideon said, flicking her right back.
“Yes, Griddle, I’m bullying you,” Harrow said curtly, grabbing her chin back in her hand none too gently for another rigid swipe of paint. “You’re so brave for enduring it with such grace—ow! What the hell was that?”
“You poke me in the cheek, I poke you in the cheek.”
“Griddle, have you ruined my paint—”
“It’s just a little smear! Here I’ll fix it for you.”
“The hell you will, I’ve seen what it looks like when you do your own—”
“Fine, walk around looking like a blurry-cheeked little weirdo, bringing shame on the House name.”
“You said it was just a little smear!”
“I may have downplayed it a bit. Do you want me to fix it or not?”
Harrow gave an aggrieved sigh. “If you make me look ridiculous,” she warned, but angled her face so Gideon could fix what needed to be fixed.
Gideon dipped her fingers in the black paint of the compact, tracing it along the sharp, high ridge of Harrow’s cheekbone and fixing the damage she’d done. The sharpness of Harrow's features had always been somewhat of a marvel to her when she allowed herself to think of it. She'd touched a gentle hand like this to her cheek only once, on Harrow's sloppy nineteenth birthday; any other time they got this close it was usually a precursor to a murder attempt. Gideon took an extra moment to perfect the blackened angle on that sharp cheekbone, eyes lingering on the long black eyelashes framing even blacker eyes that refused to meet hers in what Harrow would surely consider a state of imperfection.
Harrow lifted an eyebrow at her as she withdrew her hand. “Have you actually fixed my paint or did you just draw something unspeakable on my cheek?” she asked.
“Are you asking me if I drew a dick on your face? Because I won’t lie, I considered it.”
Another slow, deliberate exhale. “Did you, or did you not?”
“I did not. But you probably shouldn’t trust me in the future.”
“Duly noted.” She dipped her thumb in the paint and made a brusque swipe over Gideon’s lower lip. “Have I mentioned yet that you are the worst excuse for a cavalier?”
Gideon followed the motion of her thumb with a challenging quirk to the corner of her mouth, keeping contact as long as possible. “Hey, this was your idea, Rev Dot.”
Harrow withdrew her thumb. “Call me Rev Dot again, Griddle, I dare you.”
“Rev Dot. Listen, genuine question: everyone else here seems to have some real, trusting relationship with their cavalier.”
Harrow lifted an eyebrow. “That’s not a question.”
“Yeah, well if you wouldn’t interrupt me, I’d get to the question part, which is—obviously you and I are just faking it for God’s funeral, but with Ortus? Do you have that type of trusting, close relationship with him as your real cavalier, like the others do with theirs?”
Harrow looked surprised by the question, then her brows drew together in thought.
“I trust…that emotional frailties and abysmal poetic ventures aside, he would be obedient and loyal to the Ninth to his last whimper,” she said finally. She hesitated a moment, then added, somewhat softer, “I’m impatient with him because of his failings, but in truth he’s…important. Something of a litmus test for my sanity, which as you know, has the occasional failing of its own.”
Gideon considered that, rolling the implications of it over in her mind and finding them somewhat wanting, because that wasn’t quite what she was asking. “But on a personal level,” she tried again. “The necro-cav like…I don’t know, bond—like what Magnus was saying, the…being able to be all…yourself and unmasked and all. Do you have that with Ortus? Like, guard-down honesty?”
To her surprise, the corners of Harrow’s mouth actually twitched up the slightest bit in a fleeting rueful smile. “Guard-down honesty? In the most clinical sense, yes. But as to what you’re referring…I think you know I don’t.”
Gideon held her gaze for a moment, then stretched carelessly. “Well. Good news for you, I might not be obedient or loyal to you, but you can at least trust me to be honest when I tell you I may or may not some day draw a dick on your face,” she said.
“That’s all I can ask for,” Harrow muttered, snapping the paint compact closed and withdrawing it back into the mysterious folds of her robes. She straightened up. “I have devotions to get through, I want to note down what I’ve been able to glean from here so far, and I have several trade proposals I need to draft up for tomorrow. Are you coming?”
“Coming…to…pray, glean, and draft with you?”
“To bed, Griddle.”
“Wow, and here I thought you were against necro-cav intimacy.”
Harrow rolled her eyes. “I suppose I walked right into that one,” she huffed. “I trust you at least remember where our rooms are, and will be able to make your way up there without getting lost.”
“Sure do. And no I will not be curling up in that teeny tiny cot by your feet like an obedient little guard dog. I’ll find my own place to stretch out, thanks.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
Harrow started to leave, then paused as her eyes fell on the little book Gideon had left on the table with the old House customs, still open to the page describing the “swapsies” theme party, wherein necromancer and cavalier switched roles for a night. She picked it up, reading it over for a moment with eyes narrowed in thought.
“Griddle,” she said presently, looking up from the pages, and bringing the book over to the shelf to push in between two large tomes. “There are certain books in this library you would be wise not to fuck around with.”
“Is the book you so very subtly shelved just now one of those books I shouldn’t fuck around with?” Gideon asked.
“It would be wise,” Harrow said again, “for you to refrain from fucking around with some of the books in this library.”
“So what I’m hearing is…Griddle, make sure you fuck around with all the books in this library.”
Harrow’s lips thinned in impatience. “You really are the worst cavalier I could have chosen.”
“And yet you still chose me, dummy,” Gideon said. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself for any fuckery I may or may not get up to over the next two days.”
Another tremendous eye-roll, and Harrow swept from the room, bone garments clinking and clacking the whole way. Gideon waited until she couldn’t hear them anymore before snagging up the little book Harrow had shelved and flipping through to the necro-cav swapsies theme party page. She scanned it over in search of what Harrow had found troubling enough she’d felt compelled to shelve it.
At first Gideon didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Then, along the margins, she saw two things of interest: one, the faint scrawling of what she recognized from all Harrow’s boring books as a necro theorem; and two, at the very bottom, a series of short notes, presumably written between colleagues. Both seemed not to have been written in the book itself; more likely than not, someone had written these notes on a piece of paper on top of the book, and faint impressions of the ink had bled into the book beneath. She squinted to get a better look:
J, this is the stupidest idea you could have come up with.
-M
I’ve come up with much stupider, M, remember the cows?
-J
This is physically impossible, unless performed by you, and even then I’m not sure it would work. Also…why??
-M
As long as the theorems are signed off on with a necromancer’s spit, I’ve modified them so they could be completed. They just need to be used in cellular tandem with their cav. Obviously it’s not sustainable; I’d give it 24 hours tops.
As to why? Mostly I just think it would be very funny.
Also have you seen my lucky forceps?
-J
A took them. I don’t even want to think about what for.
-M
Gideon didn’t know who these J and M people were, but she liked J’s reasoning that things should be done based purely on how funny they’d be. Reason enough to take a stab at it right there.
Being very much non-necromantic, she had no idea what to do with a theorem, didn’t know if she was supposed to say words, or think numbers, or make goofy hand gestures—so that was a no-go. But what she did have was a mouth painted with the same paint Harrow had used on her mouth, so in theory there might be some small amount of possible cellular overlap, which could potentially count as a necromancer and cav working in tandem.
Checking around one more time to make sure no one else was in the library, she landed a quick smooch on top of the written theorem in the book, pressing the paint into it. Then she laughed at herself because that was dumb, and re-shelved it.
She didn’t expect anything to actually happen.
She was a fucking moron.