Chapter Text
When Petri wakes up, the sun is filtering through the window above her bed, and her entire body is sore, like she was run over by a truck. She's pretty sure she wasn't. But her head hurts, and the light is too bright, and her tongue is dry and heavy in her mouth, and all in all, she feels like shit.
It doesn't help when her gaze falls on the foot of her bed, where a woman in a purple dress is standing, lips pursed in a too-sharp smile, looking at her with eyes the coldest blue she's ever seen.
''Hi,'' Petri says, or tries to. It comes out as a rather garbled mix of sound, and the woman's smile grows, opening on a flash of white teeth.
''Good morning,'' the woman answers, in a voice Petri wouldn't have thought would be so high pitched, trilling through her eardrums. She whines and flops back on her pillow.
''We’ve brought you clothes,'' the woman says, unfazed. ''Put them on, so we can head for breakfast.''
Her tone doesn't leave room for protest, but Petri groans and props herself up on her elbows to look at her. She feels like her head is going to explode.
''Breakfast?''
''Breakfast,'' the woman confirms, and stands up from the bed. ''The sooner the better.''
''Can I just,'' Petri slowly sits up, hair falling in front of her eyes, that she tries to push back, ''have five more minutes? Had some trouble falling asleep last night, what with all that happened yesterday,'' and she tries to move her hand in a way that would encompass the last day, but doesn't seem to impress the woman. ''I'm still a bit tired,'' she ends, in slight desperation.
The woman claps her hands. It's loud. Petri kind of wants to die. ''That's why a healthy breakfast is everything you need to get back on your feet,'' she enthuses, and walks to the door with a spring in her steps. ''Come on, up you go, I don't have all day!''
Petri considers ignoring her entirely and going back to sleep, which she feels should be her right, but the woman's nails are sharp and her smile has a way to hook itself behind Petri's ribs and tug at her hearts in a way that would be endearing if it wasn't also terrifying. Plus, she talks with an accent Petri hasn't heard yet, one that catches on some words and makes vowels pop, and, to be entirely honest, Petri is... intrigued.
(Also she really, really wants to know what happened in that library.)
So she gets up, under the watchful gaze of the woman, takes one look at the tunic carefully folded on the chair next to her bed, and grabs her coat from where it was lying on top of her sheets. Her boots are next to the chair and she slips them on, deliberately ignoring the sandals waiting for her there. She brushes her hair out of her face and strides towards the woman, all smiles and quick movements that she hopes are doing a good job of hiding in how much pain she's right now.
The woman crosses the door before Petri even has the time to say anything.
''You took so long to wake up, my poor dear,'' the woman says when Petri catches up with her in the corridors. She's walking at a brisk pace, twirling an umbrella in one hand that Petri could've sworn she didn't have in her bedroom. ''I was almost ready to take care of it myself.''
Petri gulps. Right. She isn't sure she wants to know what that means. ''I'm not sure I caught your name,'' she inquires, and tries not to think about how long the woman stood at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep.
(Probably not that long, she tells herself, but there's a glint in the woman's eyes that could mean anything.)
The woman looks at her from under her eyelashes. ''I'm Missy,'' she says, almost coyly, and her lips open briefly. ''I'm the Headmistress of this convent.''
''Oh.'' Petri doesn't look at the red around her mouth, and wonders instead what it means that the Headmistress herself came to greet her good morning, the night after she did some breaking and entering in the convent's library where a murder happened. ''Nice to meet you. I'm Petri.''
''So I heard.'' There's a smirk tugging at the corners of Missy's lips, one that she doesn't bother soothing out, and Petri feels her cheeks heating up. Missy's eyes aren't leaving her face, like she's searching for something, but Petri doesn't know what, and doesn't know why it makes her feel so uncomfortable and wrongfooted. ''It's an unusual name, Petri. Any reason why you chose it?''
''I-'' Petri's tongue sticks to her palate, as she isn't sure what Missy means with that. She told the friars Petri was her name; they don't have any reason to suspect it's not her real one, even if she forgot everything else. But for some reason, the woman immediately assumed that Petri had chosen it by herself, and...
They just met, but Petri feels like this woman knows more about herself than she does.
''I liked it,'' she says, when the silence stretches and Missy hums, frowning like she was expecting this kind of answer but is still disappointed by it.
''Well,'' Missy says, ''I'm not particularly fond of it.''
It's vexing, to say the least, and as much as Petri finds that she has trouble adjusting to this name, it stings probably more than it should have.
They reach a flight of stairs, and Petri realizes that their little escapade last night must've tired her much more than expected since she comes out on top with a shaky breath. Missy seems perfectly unfazed and goes to open a door next to the staircase, the only door Petri has seen so far that’s so heavily decorated.
''Snacks!' Missy exclaims, and claps her hands together. Petri follows her inside the brightly lit room, great windows letting in the sunlight. There's a table on the center, dressed with food, ranging from heaps of sausages to pieces of bread smelling like they have just gotten out of the oven.
Petri's stomach grumbles and she realizes for the first time that she's hungry.
''Take a seat,'' Missy gestures vaguely to a chair on one end of the table. ''And eat as much as you want. These guys would waste it anyway.''
Petri frowns.
''These guys?'' she repeats. ''But you said you were the Headmistress?''
Missy sits down on the other end, delicately folding the fabric of her skirts around her. She's the only one Petri's seen so far who doesn't wear a tunic. She wonders if an exception to the code is allowed to the Headmistress only, or if there's something more to it.
''And I also told you to sit down,'' Missy says icily. Then, as Petri isn't moving, ''Sit.''
Slowly, Petri pulls a chair. She doesn't stop looking at Missy the whole time, and the Headmistress grins when she lets herself fall on it, crossing her arms over her chest.
''Good girl,'' Missy praises, and Petri's glare hardens.
''Why did you bring me here?''
''I told you,'' Missy clicks her tongue. ''We need to get some food in you. You weren't with us last night for dinner.''
It's said in a vaguely accusing tone and Petri is on the defensive immediately.
''I didn't know I was supposed to be anywhere.''
''Well now you know. I expect you to be present for all the meals, as we all do. You have free reign to go around and do all the snooping you want in the meantime, but I want you in the common hall for dinner. Is that understood?''
Petri feels her cheeks burn but holds Missy's gaze. Wonders what she knows exactly. ''You seem very devoted to this convent.''
''I am simply fulfilling my duty, nothing more,'' Missy answers humbly. Except the more Petri talks with the woman, the more she's sure there's nothing humble about her. ''I have to take care of everyone in the convent, and that's including hosts, like you and our dear doctor.''
''You mean O?''
Missy purses her lips and pushes a bowl filled with tomatoes towards Petri. ''Eat, that's why we're here.''
Petri looks at the tomatoes, then at Missy, then back at the tomatoes. She grabs one. ''O came here right before me, is that right?''
''I thought he'd have told you everything already.'' Missy reaches out and plucks a small piece of bread from a plate. ''I heard that you two have become best buds.''
Petri frowns. ''That seems like a wild exaggeration. And he didn't tell me anything, I figured it all out by myself.''
Missy sighs. ''Of course you did.'' Before Petri can wonder what that means, a small knife slides in between Missy's fingers, coming from seemingly nowhere, and the sun glints off the sharpened blade, sending white spots dancing all over the room. Petri's breath catches in her throat.
''I'm the one who found him,'' Missy goes on saying as she uses the knife to spread butter on the piece of bread with small, precise movements. It's almost mesmerizing, as much as the act of buttering a toast can be mesmerizing. ''You should have seen him, the poor boy. All lost and terrified. He practically attacked me when he first saw me, and then wouldn't leave me. I'm glad he found a friend.''
Petri bites into her tomato. ''I wouldn't call us friends.''
It doesn't seem like the right thing to say. The delicate lines between Missy's brows creases, her eyes flaring for just the fraction of a second before she settles back into her carefully crafted mask of poised indifference. A portion of the toast crumbles between her fingers. ''Really now. You two do seem to get on very well though.''
''You could say that, I guess.'' Petri leans forward a little. ''Where did you find him?''
''Wandering in the forest, just like you.'' Missy puts her toast aside and starts on another one. Petri almost feels bad for the poor piece of bread subjected to her ruthless knife technique. ''He was adamant he had been alone. Your arrival seems to be putting this into perspective.''
''I don't-''
''It left me wondering,'' Missy pursues, ignoring Petri's weak protest, ''why exactly you two are here for. What it means that you've both lost your memories, turned up at the exact same spot, but one week apart. And most of all how you came to be here. ''
Petri frowns. ''What do you mean, 'how'?''
''Nothing more than the very simple question of why two people with extravagant clothing and strange demeanours happened to turn up at my frankly unremarkable convent.'' Missy sets her other toast near the first one and reaches out for a single olive. ''Why ‘Petri’?''
Petri blinks, taken aback by the sudden change of topic. ''Wh-''
Missy waves her olive at her. ''Don't try that with me. If O couldn't remember his name, I don't see why you could. So, why ‘Petri’? Why not, I don't know, ‘Joan’?''
''Joan?''
Missy shrugs. ''Just a simple suggestion. Thought you might like it.''
''I like 'Petri','' Petri protests. ''I'm not changing it.''
''Do you now.''
And maybe Missy has a point and Petri doesn't really like her name that much, but it's the best she has for now and 'Joan' doesn't really appeal to her. It sounds too much like a name she'd choose if she wanted to blend in, disappear behind an alias, and that's not what she wants right now. Not when she's trying to figure out who she is. At least 'Petri' has something unique to it, something she can cling to while looking for things to fill the holes in her memory.
''I can't say I'm that surprised,'' Missy sighs eventually, and Petri watches in horrified fascination as she suddenly digs her nails into the olive's skin and spreads it open, removing the core, before putting it on the table and throwing the discarded pulp aside. ''O didn't really like the names I suggested to him either. But as it appears, I... misjudged his character quite a bit.'' Missy is looking directly at Petri as she says that, and she shifts in her seat, unsure of what the Headmistress is trying to say.
''What did you suggest?''
Missy smiles to herself. ''John. Basil. Theta. He asked why he would choose a letter for a name. You can guess what I suggested next.''
''You're the one who came up with...''
Another olive dies at the hands of Missy. ''As a joke. Don't blame me for the stupid decisions the man makes.''
Petri smiles and eats a bit more of her tomato. ''Alright, won't do.''
''Good.''
They stay silent for a moment. Missy removes the core of a few more olives. Petri finishes her tomato, grabs a small piece of cheese. She's the first one to break the silence.
''When did you become Headmistress?''
''You're a curious one, aren't you.'' Missy toys with one of the olive's cores, not looking directly at Petri. ''It'll be ten years in a month.'' Her mouth curves into a small smile. ''And still, it feels like it's been only a few weeks.''
''Ten years is a lot,'' Petri says, because she doesn't know what else to say. And also because, for some reason, it wasn't the answer she was expecting.
''It is, isn't it. I like to think I did a good job with my time here, even if not everyone will agree.''
Petri thinks back to Aldo looking nervously around him before mentioning Missy. ''Why?''
Missy shrugs. ''You can't always be liked by everyone. I just do my job, and sometimes people think I could do it better, or differently. Not that I care. It would be exhausting if I had to be liked by everyone, all the time, don't you think?''
''Y- yeah, I guess,'' Petri says. ''So you knew Salvatore well?''
''I knew him as much as I know everyone else.''
''Right.” Petri fidgets awkwardly with the cuffs of her coat. “Terrible accident.''
''Frightful, really,'' Missy agrees, ''but bound to happen at some point.''
“Bound to?'' Petri repeats.
''He was old, and we kept telling him he should be careful, but he wouldn't hear anything. He said that as the oldest member he should be allowed to do whatever he wanted. I did my best and tried to warn him, but sometimes people just don't want to be helped.''
''The oldest?''
''Yes, the oldest. Are you just going to repeat everything I said or are you able to come up with words on your own?''
Petri shrinks back in her seat. ''I didn't know, that's all. O didn't say anything about it.''
''O doesn't know everything,'' Missy says with disdain. ''I appointed him as the convent's doctor because it seemed like he would fit the role well. But now,'' and she raises her eyes, meets Petri's, ''I'm wondering. Maybe I was wrong.''
And Petri thinks about protesting, but Missy pops one of the cores into her mouth and the sound it makes when her teeth close on it doesn't leave room for anything else.
She watches as Missy swallows and gets up, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. ''I think we said everything we had to say to each other,'' she says, and Petri sees her knife disappear in the folds of her clothes. ''I expect to see you for lunch.''
She disappears through the door and Petri is left alone to munch on her (frankly delicious) bacon in front of a stack of mauled olives.
****
''You're heavier than you look,'' is the first thing O says to her when she runs into him near what she assumes is the diner hall, and she lets out a Ow, followed by a Is that how you say good morning now? which makes O... not laugh, per se, but his lips pull back and he looks generally happier than a few seconds before and Petri doesn't find that cute.
''Just met the Head Mistress,'' she says instead of anything stupid like Do I really droll in my sleep?, and O pulls a face.
''Interesting one, right?''
''That's one word for it, sure.'' O has started walking so Petri just follows him. ''She said some things about not needing any more 'chaos''', and she mimes the brackets around the word, ''in the convent. Seemed a bit aggressive to me.''
O snorts.
''Darling, wishing for some peace and quiet is not a direct attack against you, unless you are chaos incarnated. Which, actually, wouldn't surprise me that much.''
''You know what, I'm taking that as a compliment.'' O bows slightly, as if he were a gracious loser accepting that she just won that point, which Petri knows for a fact he isn't, and she tries not to dwell on the pet name. Or rather, dwells on it, so to ponder if using one in return could win her the upper hand.
''But it was the tone she used when saying that,'' Petri whines, dejected. ''It was really mean!''
''I wouldn't be astonished by that, if I were you. I, too, would use a mean tone after being subjected to you for an entire breakfast.''
Petri frowns and fights back the urge to cross her arms over her chest, like a pouting child. ''Then leave. I'm not particularly fond of your presence either.''
''Alas,'' O says in a drawn-out sigh, ''I'm afraid I'm not allowed to do that. I can't just let you run freely around causing havoc. As your doctor and guard, you are my responsibility.''
''Guard?''
''Yes,'' and there's a slight smile playing on O's lips. ''I'm now sure that you were a convicted criminal whom I managed to capture and was in the process of taking to the nearest jail when you knocked me out and tried to escape.''
And, really, it's too easy to retaliate with the multiple proofs that O was definitely the escaped convict in that situation, and to reply Ghost hunting when he asks the program for the day. She knocks shoulders with him when he says they'll be lucky to find one after what he dubs ''last night’s disaster.''
''It was a rousing victory,'' Petri declares in return. ''Finding ghosts ranks second in the discovery scale, above finding the murderer.''
''Then what ranks first?''
''Finding biscuits,'' Petri intones, deadly serious, and O laughs, for real this time, and Petri bites back a smile.
****
Turns out, they're not lucky, and no ghost deigns to show up that day.
It's not for lack of trying; they've methodically explored every nook and cranny of the convent, passing by friars who gave them confused looks, and a tired Aldo who Petri decided was in need of some food and practically frogmarched to the dining hall so he could take a bite of bread. When night falls, Missy herself comes to find them (Petri has no idea how she did it. They were in the cellar, hiding behind stacks of bottles and waiting for any weird light, when Missy just. Popped out of nowhere, with her too-perfect smile and her purple waistcoat that was just as disturbing to Petri as it had been in the morning for reasons she still couldn't pinpoint), and she tells them they're a community, and need to have dinner together.
So they eat with everyone, and then go camping in the library for the night.
Morning comes, and still no ghosts.
The next day, and the day after, are still devoid of ghosts. It rains, for most of these, and Petri finds herself holed up in O's office, rummaging through his jars and reading his books, and they start making concoctions, half-based on whatever recipes happen to tickle Petri's interest, and whatever ingredients they think could improve it. There are some explosions, and one scroll catches on fire, but it doesn't end in a bloodbath despite what Aldo's look when he came to check on them had suggested, so Petri thinks she earned the right to be satisfied with herself. (O doesn't, though. Not after doing nothing but sabotaging her ideas all day long. And no, she doesn't care if some of his actually worked).
It rains again, and again. There isn't much to do in a convent in the off-time when one isn't trying to find a murderer, Petri finds out. She goes to the garden, talks with Aldo and Not-Aldo, picks some plants for O's shelves, and some she plans on using for a balm that would cure the burns on hers and O's hands, results of their (not quite failed) experiments.
She tries to find Missy, too. The task is harder than expected. Missy seems to be coming and going in the convent as she pleases, without any clear nor discernable pattern, and sometimes Petri isn't sure anymore if she's looking for the ghosts or for Missy.
But she manages to find her (corner her, would be more appropriate, when she thinks about it) once, near the chapel, and she asks her about the legend of God's gift to the convent. Missy laughs, and it's as terrifying as Petri thought it would be, all teeth and a sound as sharp as a razor. She then tells her she's too big to believe in those kinds of fairy tales, and Petri is left with burning cheeks and a sudden doubt as to if ''fairytale'' was a word commonly used in this time period.
****
To be fair, it's not like their day-to-day life completely lacks ghosts. It's just that they can't approach them, and Petri finds that even more frustrating than the fruitless chase of the second day.
At first, she would take O with her on night watches and walk through the convent, from one side of the building to the other, poking behind every door in case a ghost would be hiding there. It didn't really work.
Instead, there were... things, moving, when she wasn't looking. Petri would look away, for the fraction of a second, and there would be the back of a head rounding the corner of the corridor, the tail end of a coat bathed in a blue light or the heel of a polished shoe disappearing the moment she looked at it.
''Are they like, doing it on purpose?'' she asks one night, as strands of floppy ephemeral hair pass behind a window, vanishing as soon as she opens it. ''Are they trying to rile us up? Are they making fun of us?''
''That would imply that these ghosts can see us and have a sense of humor, and I don't know which one is worse,'' O answers dryly, from his spot against the wall. The git had started to bring books to their hunts and to read them instead of doing something nice, like actually helping. Petri very much hates him.
''How many of them do you think there are?''
O turns a page of his book, stifling a yawn. ''Who knows. Maybe just ask them next time.''
''I would if they would just stay in the same spot for more than a fraction of a second!'' O lets out a distracted ''hum'', and Petri huffs and brushes hair out of her face.
At first she (and O too, even though the asshole wouldn't admit it) had thought there were only two ghosts – the children, with their unruly hair and silent laughs, running around the entirety of the convent, slipping between their fingers and under their blue light. But then, they'd stumbled upon a grown man, with dark clothes and a goatee, who had tripped next to O, and disappeared before he touched the floor; then there'd been this head covered in curly blonde hair that Petri had been so sure belonged to the blonde child of the library, but had turned out to be the one of a grown man with a multicolored coat that O still used to this day as proof that his own fashion sense wasn't so bad. There'd been more, after that, or so Petri thought. It was difficult to count them, when most of the time all she could catch was the top of a head or the end of a coat.
(One thing she was sure of, was that these ghosts were all particularly fond of flappy coats and capes.)
''D'you think they are friars? Like ghosts of those who died here?'' she wonders out loud, coming to lean next to O against the wall when it becomes clear the floppy-dark-haired ghost she'd been chasing for most of the evening wasn't coming back. ''Would be helpful, if we could find Silverio’s.''
''He was called Salvatore,'' O corrects, still in that distracted tone, eyes not leaving his book. ''And friars? Really? Have you seen their clothes?''
Petri shrugs. ''Maybe they changed clothes. I wouldn't want to be stuck in that tunic for all of eternity either.''
''Yeah right, because I'm sure the afterlife has numerous clothes shops.'' O's voice is dripping with sarcasm and Petri elbows him in the gut. She's doing all the work here, he has no rights to make fun of her.
''Alright, what are your theories then? What d'you think they are?''
''The delusions of our tired and amnesiac brains, most probably,'' O answers, and yawns again. ''Can I go to sleep now? I feel like I haven't seen my bed in months.''
Petri frowns.
''I'm not tired.''
''Yeah well,'' O closes his book with a snap, ''not everyone has your extraordinary constitution. Don't let me stop you from hunting ghosts all night long, though.''
The words sit wrong with Petri, bringing a wave of anxiety with them. ''But,'' she scrambles as O detaches himself from the wall and starts walking away, ''you and I, we're, you, we're the same... right?''
O stops in the middle of the corridor, and Petri feels her throat close as he turns to her, eyebrows raised. And, well, they've never really discussed it, not since the first day and the conversation in his office that felt like jumping around mines – but there'd been hints (big hints, if she dares say, hints like Sherlock Holmes related discussions, and heated arguments about mathematical knowledge that definitely wasn't discovered in this century, and, on one memorable day, a dab from O that knocked a bowl out of a shelf) – but still, there's something fragile, in this unspoken acknowledgment of who they are, that frightens her sometimes, because what if she was wrong and alone, again, and there are days when Petri looks at him and can't help but wonder how many heartbeats she would feel if she were to put her hand on his chest.
''Different people have different constitutions,'' O says eventually, as if talking to a child, and Petri feels the usual frustrated anger that comes when talking to him rise up in her chest, next to her anxiety. But then he adds, ''Doesn't matter how many hearts they have,'' and – and her lips curve into a smile, almost against her will, and she wants to pump her fist in the air or maybe high-five O, but before she has the time to do anything he shakes his head with an exasperated – not fond, she tells herself – look and walks away.
Gods, she hates him, she thinks; but she's still smiling.
****
She conducts investigations, too. She would do it most of the time, if Missy hadn't made it clear that the death was ''classified'' and We don't want any more disturbance, do we, dear?, in a sugary-sweet tone, blood-red marks on the rim of the glass she held in between elegantly manicured fingers. So they have to be discreet, sly about it, cornering friars without making it look like cornering and asking questions without making them look like questions. Or rather, she has to do all that, because O, the absolute coward, refuses to do any of the hard lifting himself and is content to hum along when she comes late into his office, sits on the wooden chest and narrates the day's interrogations.
(It's weirdly cosy, Petri finds on some occasions, when she's talking, and the rain is tapping against the windows, and O is making soup in the cooking pot – that absolutely shouldn't be used for cooking proper food after everything they've put in it – and his sleeves ride up his arms as they flex – and she doesn't look.)
They don’t go to the wakes, or to the burial. O had said it would be the perfect place to ask some more questions about Salvatore, since everyone would be here and unable to go anywhere else, but Petri had been talking to Aldo lately, and the kid was just - so tired, always, and had said, cheeks still damp, Stop, don’t, please. And Petri isn’t really good at social clues, that much she’s figured, but she can understand when her presence isn’t wanted anymore. She gave Aldo one of the tinctures she’d made, nettle and lavender, told him to sleep, and didn’t go to the burial.
Sometimes, she and O are dragged by the scruff of their neck in the dining hall, by a disgruntled Aldo, or a tired Ronaldo with ink stains all over his fingers. On one memorable evening, Missy herself knocks on the office door and comes in without waiting, to take their hands in hers and half-drag, half-push them towards the hall.
''It's just such a shame,'' she says, as her fingernails rake across Petri's skin on the back of her hand, leaving red marks in their wake. ''Two new faces, adorably cute, and we are barely allowed to see them. We need you to eat more often with us, do you understand?''
And they nod, sharing a look above Missy's head, and O's eyelid twitches in such a funny way that Petri is unable to stifle her giggle.
(''It just feels... weird,'' O had said later, when they were back in his office, Petri perusing through a book on the Templars, ''when she touches me. Sends shivers all up my spine.''
''Maybe it's love,'' Petri had drawled.
She had been hit in the head with a pillow less than five seconds after.)
****
Their conversations usually go like this :
''No.''
''But-''
''I said no.''
''You're no fun.''
''How, look at that, I am now wounded beyond repair.''
''So-''
''Still no,''
because O is an awful person with no redeeming quality. They can also go like this :
''Coward. You're such a coward. You're Mister Coward-O. C-O-ward.''
''Fine, I'll do it.''
''I'm sure you don't want to do it just because you're afraid to be proven wrong.''
''Do you actually listen when someone talks?''
''Most of the time it's not interesting, so no. Wait, did you just say 'fine'?''
And Petri somehow finds herself spending the majority of the day with him.
They talk about who they were, too. Wonder about the nature of their relationship, back when they had all their memories and their real names. ''I bet you were an awful person,'' Petri tells him one day, as O had just poured rice all over (and under) her clothes. There are grains stuck in her hair and on her back. ''Someone who wore ties with vertical stripes. Maybe you were a heckler.''
''That,'' O wriggles a finger at her, a genuinely offended look on his face, ''is really mean. I won't stand being insulted like this.''
''Alright, not a heckler then. But definitely a tax evader,'' she concedes, and tries to gather the rice to throw some back at him.
''Definitely,'' O grins.
''And I was the one who had to stop you.''
O scoffs. ''You'd never be able to.''
''Would so!''
''Would not.''
(They speak of being sailors, set off to discover new lands, pirates or corsairs, exiled kings and lost heirs; Petri's almost stopped pretending at this point, and smiles everytime O smiles.)
****
When Petri passes a friar in the yard this morning, the man crosses himself and takes a wide berth to avoid her.
Which is, you know. Fine. She gets it. She came in on the day one of their peers died in a really-not-suspicious fall, she doesn't have her memories, she spends half of her time hanging out with the other memory-less person and the other half running around the convent with no obvious goal to all these people who aren't in the ghost secret (or maybe they are in, and isn't that a fun idea?). And, after a few days of this dance – friars avoiding her, looks and whispers behind her back – she should be used to it. But, still. She and O have just finished a balm for soothing the abused muscles of the scribes' hands, and a tincture to help all the novices (and some masters) rest better at night.
At least, there's no talk of witchcraft. Petri doesn't know if she has to thank Missy for that, but it's definitely a good thing.
''It's not something we condone,'' Ronaldo says when she asks him about it at dinner. He has bags under his eyes, and his hands shake when he reaches for his goblet, but he stopped her in the garden this morning to thank her for the tincture, so Petri hopes he'll get better.
''This convent – our rules, they are not exactly the usual rule, as you've probably noticed. That's why it's so important we protect it with everything we have.''
''And you don't get in trouble with that?'' Petri asks. She has noticed, indeed, the slight – and more obvious – discrepancies, between what she can remember of the Franciscan's rule and the way the friars here behave. The prayer's hours are not exactly the same, they have a room filled with swords – locked, but that wasn't a problem anymore – and their Head Master is a Headmistress.
She just doesn't know what to make with that.
Ronaldo lets out a soft chuckle, as if entertained by that idea. ''No, quite the opposite. We are rather precious to the Pope.''
''Hm. I see,'' Petri says, when she's not sure what there's to see. ''In what way?''
''I've seen you take books from the library,'' Ronaldo says instead of answering. ''Found something you liked?''
Petri bites her lip, and thinks.
''You guys have a lot of books about the Templars. Didn't expect that.''
And Ronaldo... winks, at her. Well. Isn't that a surprise. ''Then you know all there is to know about this convent.'' Ronaldo pulls a face at that, that he tries to hide behind a spoonful of broth. ''Well, almost everything,'' he amends.
''Wait,'' Petri says slowly, then snaps her fingers. ''Oh! Of course! The Templars?''
There are shushes around them, and a few dark looks that make Petri sink a little bit in her chair. Ronaldo rolls his eyes but it looks like he's fighting back a smile when he says, ''Yes, but without screaming it would be even better,'' and Petri nods, grinning a slightly apologetic smile.
She likes speaking to Ronaldo, Petri decides. He's clever, and always listens to what she has to say. They’ve talked quite a bit already, before today, Petri asking him relentless questions about the myths surrounding the convent’s history, the hierarchy of the friars and his own belief in ghosts. And now, maybe because he’s tired of the constant questioning, or simply because he figured she’s that close to understanding it all by herself, he's given her the key to the convent's history.
''So you guys are... I didn't think they'd really survived?''
''We didn't survive,'' Ronaldo answers calmly. ''This convent was founded before Philip started hunting us, to protect the very thing he was trying to get.''
''I thought Philip wanted the Templars to disappear because he saw them – you – as heretics,'' Petri frowns. ''That's what all the books say.''
''It's more complicated than that,'' Ronaldo says with a weary sigh. ''If you look a bit deeper, you'll find people saying that it's also the power and the wealth of our order that excited Philip's greed, more than anything else. But then you'll wonder why he decided to kill us all when the bulk of it would then go to the Pope, and not to him; or why he didn't simply raise the taxes for those of us who were in France. No, what he wanted was something way more precious than gold.''
''The gift.''
Ronaldo nods, a small smile playing on his lips. ''I see you've done your research.''
''I thought it was a legend,'' Petri says, scrambling frantically at what she can remember O telling her that first night. ''A... a fairytale.''
''A fairytale would be high a price for so much blood spilled.'' Ronaldo sighs, again, stirring his broth aimlessly with his spoon. ''When he heard the first rumours that Philip knew about the Gift and wanted it for himself, our Master created this convent and tasked us with its guard. We live by the Templar's rule, and by our sacred duty.''
''But the Pope-''
''Knows about it, of course. He helped us hide from Philip, and still does today.''
''But isn't there a risk that one day he'll want it for himself?''
''Careful, young woman, you might be accused of heresy,'' Ronaldo says, but there's a twinkle in his eyes. ''But as I don't doubt that your intentions are devoid of any malignity, I'll take this as, say, an exercise of thinking, and tell you that if the Pope ever were to be plagued by such thoughts, he would have to find the Keeper of the Gift and pry the secret from them, which I doubt he'd be capable of.''
''Why?''
''Because we'd all rather die than betray it,'' Ronaldo says simply, and drinks the last of his broth while Petri thinks very hard and very fast about everything she just learnt.
****
There are clothes in O's chest, Petri discovers, when he finally unlocks that lock. He only does it because she has finally understood how the metallic stick works, or at least some of the things it can do, and can now point it at doors and they will just. Open.
(The first time it happens, she screams with joy, and the next minute three friars are with her, cautiously asking if she's alright.
She's never been more alright in her remembered-life.)
O doesn't know about the stick, but he knows she can now enter his office even when it's locked and takes matters in his own hands before she can do it.
''You had the worst fashion taste,'' she tells him, her face scrunched up in displeasure at the frankly hideous purple coat she's holding, and O says nothing but looks pointedly at her braces, braces that she likes, and refused to give up, along with the rest of her clothing, when some friar (a scribe, with a name full of ''R'' and T'') brought her the order-appropriate tunic and sandals. She put on the sandals, because her boots were too loud on the stone floors (and not because Missy looked at them pointedly when talking about proper standing. On the opposite, she kept them one day longer than she had intended because of that). But she refused, and still refuses, to part with the rest of her clothes.
(The tunics don't even have pockets!)
When she's finished ruffling through all the clothes O wore on the day he came to the convent, and through the trinkets O found in the pockets (there isn't much – a kind of rectangular box that doesn't open, with buttons on the top; a stick of eyeliner, which explains the eyelashes; a golden broach; a ring), she decides to try on the coat. (Doesn't think of the ring).
It doesn't fit her, it's too large on the shoulders, but she keeps it on for the rest of the evening nonetheless. O steals hers in retaliation and they burn a new cooking pot while trying to prevent the other one to stain their coat.
****
The chapel has an organ, and twice a day someone plays it. Petri likes to stand near a window and listen to it. She closes her eyes and sees the keys behind her eyelids, moves her fingers in rhythm with the piece and knows that she could play it better than anyone else.
One day, the piece starts differently; it's earlier, for once, and Petri is trying to ask as inconspicuously as possible Tatiana, the chef's aide, what she was doing on the day Salvatore died. O isn't with her; hasn't been for some days already, absent from his office when she goes to find him, almost impossible to find in the convent's corridor. It also means that Petri hasn't been able to tell him about what Ronaldo said, but as the days pass, she doesn't know if she still wants to.
(She does, and it's not because she misses the hours spent in his office, arguing and laughing.)
Tatiana's in the middle of a story involving trips to the nearest town and a depleted stock of tomatoes when the first keys vibrate in the air and Petri stops listening to her entirely.
It's a new piece, something Petri hasn't heard since she came in, and it starts out slowly, the keys low and threatening. It makes Petri think of a wolf closing in, circling its prey, quiet and deadly. Then it explodes – a flourish of keys, from all over the keyboard, pressed with force and intent, but with an almost chirurgical precision – and for the first time, Petri thinks she wouldn't be able to play it better. It's sharp, and cutting, and reaches heights that would be the coda in any other piece, but aren't here – it builds and builds, and Petri excuses herself to Tatiana because she has to be near the chapel when it finally reaches its end, somewhere she can see the player.
She walks fast, following the music, trying to think of who it could be that plays with such a cutting intensity, and doesn't see Aldo when she runs into him.
''I'm fine, before you ask,'' Aldo sighs, and she gives him some semblance of a smile, and resumes walking towards the chapel – the song is coming to an end, she can sense it, the chords fading slowly, one after the other, to give way to the final one, and hold it until it disappears on its own.
''You seem awfully hurried,'' Aldo comments, because apparently he's still here? Petri turns to him.
''Just,'' she waves one hand, ''listening. Music.''
Aldo nods. ''Oh, yes. The Headmistress is a very good player indeed.''
Petri stops dead in her tracks. They are in front of the chapel now, the sun dancing off the stained glass windows, the music pouring out of the open doors. ''The Head-'' Of course, of course it's her, who else could it be, with her cutting smiles and piercing eyes – Petri can see her fingers, long and agile, running on the keys with their nails too long and too sharp, that somehow never catch on the cracks. ''Of course.''
''She hasn't played in a while,'' Aldo comments. ''But she's still a better player than most of us.''
''Than all of you,'' Petri corrects, because it's the truth – and Aldo shrugs, accepting it.
''I wonder if we'll hear O play. I heard the Headmistress has been trying to teach him some solfege.''
That catches Petri's attention, who was still stuck on trying to visualize Missy's play. ''O?'' And she might be watching Aldo a bit too intensely, because the boy folds in on himself a little.
''Yes he,'' Aldo runs a hand through his hair, ''I saw him? Go to the chapel with the Headmistress? And Paratello said he was with the Headmistress when he went in her office yesterday, and they were talking about solfege?''
He sounds incertain, but Petri has other thoughts in mind – thoughts that don't boil down only to ''that little prat'', but some of them certainly are composed entirely of insults towards him, and the worst part is that she doesn't even know why she's so angry at that.
''I see,'' she says, instead of doing something stupid like barge in and, she doesn't know, maybe steal the organ from underneath their hands. Or at least try to. The thing's huge. ''And do you have any idea why Missy decided to do that? I thought she wasn't overly fond of any sort of company.''
And it's true; in the days Petri has spent in the convent, she very rarely saw Missy accompanied by someone, and never for reasons other than administration-related talk. She tried to invite herself in her office once, perched on her desk and started asking questions about the best time for picking berries and if Missy was in the library on the day of the murder, but had been quickly chased away and the next time she tried to come in, she found a locked door and an empty office.
''Well, she's always seemed pretty fond of O,'' Aldo says, picking at his tunic and avoiding Petri's eyes. ''She's the one who found him in the first place, and people say she even suggested his name.''
“I know,’’ Petri says. Bites. Snarls. Whatever.
Aldo bites his lips. ''It’s just… he spent a lot of time with her, you know, before you, before we found you. And then they... well, he started spending more time with you and she... I went to see her, with Paratello, to tell her about you, and she didn't say anything? Was very brusque, sent us away quickly after telling us to take care of you, and then we practically didn't see her for the next week. So O stopped seeing her too, I suppose.''
''So they are just going back to how they were before I came in,'' Petri murmurs, and doesn't know what to think. O never told her any of that, never discussed Missy with her other than for a few dismissive words, scoffing when she suggested she could be the murderer.
Petri hadn't understood the scoffing back then; now she thinks she does.
Missy – or maybe it's O, but somehow Petri doubts it – has moved to another piece. A lighter one, where keys fall like raindrops, in a quick and neverending cascade. It takes skill, and years of training to achieve this precision, Petri knows. Missy has it all.
What she doesn't know is the name of the pieces she plays.
''What's she playing?''
It comes out harsher than intended. Aldo winces. She doesn't really feel sorry, but does feel guilty; but Aldo answers before she can apologize.
''I don't know. I never recognize any of her repertoire. I can ask Brother Juliani, if you want.''
Petri guesses that Brother Juliani might be the organist. But for some reason, she doesn't think that anyone will know what Missy plays.
''It's fine.'' They stand a moment, in silence, as the keys keep pouring out of the chapel and into the air, and Petri tries to understand why she's so convinced that Brother Juliani won't recognize it.
''When did she become the Headmistress?'' she asks. And she knows the answer already, but for some reason has to ask it again, as if the answer would, could, change-
''Ten years ago,'' Aldo answers. ''Before I entered the order.''
''Funny that. Wouldn't have betted on her being here for more than a year.'' It’s false, and true at the same time.
It's the way Missy moves around, Petri thinks. Like she owns the place, but doesn't belong in it. The friars bow and part in front of her, listen to her, let her sit at the head of the table for meals, but it doesn't feel natural.
Sometimes, Petri thinks they look at Missy like they look at her and O.
''She's taken good care of the convent,'' Aldo is saying, ''never let us down. She's good for us.'' Petri doesn't know why he says all that, she didn't ask for it, but all those praises for Missy feed the anger simmering in her chest. It also means that she doesn't see the faraway look in Aldo's eyes as he goes on length about all the good Missy brought to the convent.
The music stops. So does Aldo.
Silence hangs out in the air for a full ten seconds.
''I'm going in,'' Petri decides.
''What?'' Aldo says.
She's already halfway to the door. Aldo probably turns and walks away; she doesn't know and doesn't really care. Inside the chapel, Missy is sitting at the organ, her hands on the keys, and O is standing near, leaning towards her, talking quietly.
It makes something ugly rear in her chest, to see them like that. (Like what? asks a little voice in her brains. She ignores it).
''Hi,'' she says, loudly, and they don't jump, because they are not the kind of people who jump, but they turn to her, Missy with a small smile playing on her too-red lips, O with his eyebrows pinched together. ''Heard the music. Total banger. Loved it. What was it again? Would love to be able to play it. D'you have a partition?''
''What are you doing here?'' O says, which is rude, really, because she hadn't been talking to him and he isn't even answering any of her questions.
''Like I said, heard the music, loved it, would love to hear it again and maybe play it, who knows.'' She smiles at O, with a lot of teeth, and his frowning deepens. He shouldn't do that. It's going to leave permanent wrinkles on his forehead if he keeps at it.
''What are you doing here?'' Petri asks, and in the corner of her eyes she sees Missy roll her eyes. Which is surprising, to say the least. Eyeroll wasn't a gesture she'd thought to associate with Missy.
''Oh you know,'' O smiles, and it's full of teeth too – no originality here – ''I'm sort of a lover of the arts myself.''
Petri shoots back, without any clear thinking or defining idea, ''Really? Didn't think you were able to love something else than yourself.''
O's eyes darken. Well. It did sound better in her head.
''And,'' Missy says, drawing out the ''a'', and both of their heads snap back at her, as if O had also forgotten that she was here – not that Petri had forgotten about it, one couldn't really forget when Missy was in the same room, but it was more like she had faded into the background, vanishing behind the white-hot anger piercing through every word Petri wanted to launch at O. ''I think this is where I should leave. But I might stay.'' Missy smiles, and it's full of teeth thrice, but she wins the palm of the best teeth-filled smile, ''I do like a lovers quarrel.''
''It's not,'' Petri stutters, at the same time O stammers ''What are you talking about,'' and they definitely don't look at each other because that would be too much a cliché for any of them to downgrade themselves to.
Missy yawns.
''Not lovers, reddening cheeks, glances behind backs, yadda yadda. Spare me the dance, lovelies. I've been there more often than you could imagine.''
''You were?'' Petri asks, both because she can't actually remember if Templar's Master are allowed relationships and because she's happy to grab at every morsel that isn't the nature of hers and O's relationship – and lovers, really? They've never acted like – she never thought that – Missy coughs pointedly into her hand and Petri snaps out of her thoughts.
''You're insulting me, dear,'' Missy says, and Petri blushes, for entirely different reasons.
''I didn't mean,'' she tries to say, but Missy is looking at her, and her eyes are very blue, unsettlingly so. ''You're very,'' the corner of a lipstick-smeared lip pulls up over a white canine, and all thoughts come to an end in Petri's head. ''You're very pretty,'' she ends miserably.
O doubles over with laughter.
''Thank you dear,'' Missy says. At least she seems amused, which is better than pissed off, but definitely not what could be called great. ''Now please resume your row with our good Doctor. I am very much looking forward to witnessing it.''
There's something weird with the way Missy says ''doctor'', like she's giving it a capital letter, but not in an honorific fashion – more like she's making fun of it, finding it funny for reasons that are out of Petri's reach, but still feel like it's some sort of inside joke she's sharing with her.
And O, too.
Since the guy's still here.
What a shame.
''There wasn't any row about to happen,'' the prat is actually saying, all smoothness and lies. Not that there was a row about to happen. Petri isn’t doing rows. Especially not with O. She’s so not doing rows that she smiles at him like they're best friends and he hung the moon in the sky. (Which he didn't, just to be clear).
''No row at all,'' she confirms. ''Just passing by to say that I love the music, that's all.''
''Well, now I'm disappointed.'' Missy sighs, and stands up from her seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. ''Life here is so boring, it would have made for a good distraction. I'll have to find something else now.'' They watch as she walks down the aisle, brushing past Petri in a flourish of curls and perfume, and stops at the door to wink at them. ''Do call me when you're having one, dears.''
''There won't be any,'' O assures her, and she jerks her head back and laughs.
''Oh, O. You two have been having one since you got here,'' Missy cackles, and exits the chapel, and.
That is. Um.
Certainly one thing to say, that won't keep Petri up at night (not that she needs sleep that much).
''So,'' Petri says, instead of dwelling on this, ''Aldo told me you and Missy are very close.''
O is watching her, with eyes even bigger than usual, hair falling on his face. There's an incredulous smile pulling on his lips when he says, ''Are you actually jealous?''
''What?'' Petri swats at his arm, and he huffs, like he does when he pretends to be annoyed but isn't really. ''Why would I be jealous? There's nothing to be jealous of!''
''You tell me,'' O says. ''I'm not the one who said I wasn't able to, and I quote, 'love something else than myself.' Whatever that means.''
''Oh, shut up.'' Petri groans. ''It means you're a narcissistic, self-entitled prat and that I can't stand you.''
''Well, I can't stand you either,'' O offers graciously. ''But I don't want to stand in the way of your blooming romance with the Headmistress herself. Look at you climbing up the ranks!''
And Petri doesn't blush, but she doesn't not blush either, and she says, ''Well, look who's jealous now,'' which makes O laugh and she thinks I did that – which is not a thought she wishes to unpack but also, it's.
It's nice.
She looks at the curve of O's smile and doesn't think about framing it with her hands.
****
Ghosts do talk, Petri finds out that night.
But not in a helpful way.
She's out with O, not because they have made up, or talked, or anything – there wasn't anything to make up for, right? - but because she had mentioned talking with Ronaldo, and he has said something in the lines of Maybe this gift or whatever is what's causing the ghosts to show up, and Wouldn't it be fun to find it, and since they had scoured the convent right and left as well as south and north, Petri had decided that they would maybe have more luck in the woods surrounding it.
''I hate it here,'' O keeps mumbling, and Petri keeps ignoring him. It's funny to see him get irritated and try harder to get a reaction out of her. How the tables turn.
''Where do you think it would be? I'm thinking trunk-cranny, or maybe cave guarded by a talking bear.''
''You read too much. It's obviously in some sort of underground room with crystals in the walls and a trapped pedestal in the center.''
''And you watch too much Indiana Jones,'' Petri shoots back. ''Now,'' she tilts her head, ''do you hear that?''
''Hear what?''
''The... thing,'' Petri says, unhelpfully. O stares at her. She stares back.
She doesn't understand why he isn't reacting.
''The...,'' it's not a song, not really, but it is, a sort of insistent and melodious humming at the back of her head, faint but here, thrumming with a renewed vigor since she noticed it. ''You can't hear it?''
''Not hearing anything, love. Your voice could cover a bear's roar.''
''And your complaints would have made the bear run away a long time ago. This way,'' she says.
O sighs but follows her.
Petri tries to follow the humming. To take steps towards it, where she thinks it'll become louder. It's hard, when you're the only one who can hear it, and your partner is constantly mumbling about how you're turning crazy. Talk about a vote of confidence.
When the following-the-music turns into following-the-light, Petri turns to O with the most shit-eating grin she can muster, because she earned it.
O groans in pain, and says ''Shut up,'' before she has the chance to say anything, and sets off towards the rays of ghastly blue light emanating from between the trees.
The figures standing under the trees, right by the edge of the cliff, aren't children. They are two grown men, and Petri thinks wildly about the possibility that they are the children from the library, but years later, when they're all grown up and bending under the weight of thousands of responsibilities. But they look nothing like the children. Their hair is white, and they both have beards – a goatee, for one, a small but wilder one for the other. Fatigue is etched onto every line of their faces.
They look immensely sad.
At her side, something warm brushes her hand. Petri doesn't turn, but hooks her little finger into O's.
He slides his hand inside hers and shivers – squeezes – when one of the ghosts – if they're ghosts, even, Petri still doesn't know if she believes in them – opens his mouth and speaks.
''You know what you have to do.''
It's weird, and distorted, like Petri is hearing it from the other side of a tunnel, where it bounced off the walls until it was nothing but a twisted-up echo of what it originally was. But she can make out the words, and so can O if the fuck he quietly lets out is anything to go by.
''I don't have to do anything.''
Their clothes are torned up. Dirty. Smeared with dark stains that could be anything, from oil to blood. There's a streak of grease, or maybe blood, down the cheek of the one of the right. They look like warriors, Petri finds, and the thought makes her shiver.
''If you don't, no one else will.''
''Maybe because no one should ever do that.''
''You know it's not right. Someone has to.''
There's a plea in the men's voices – each one pleading to the other, and Petri doesn't quite get what they're arguing about – if arguing is the right term. The one on the right, with the bushy moustache and the big tired eyes seems – sounds, if Petri can trust the echo they're receiving – to be bordering on the edge of despair. Bordering only, because it's as if he's too tired to even let himself fall over it, doesn't have the energy to feel anything, even if it's despair.
''Then why don't you do it yourself?''
The one with a goatee smiles – a humorless smile, that speaks more of cruel irony than joy – and he looks tired too. Petri is almost glad they don't have anything to do with the children – probably don't. It'd be even worse if she'd had to link those two visions together.
''You can't keep pushing death over to me, Doctor. You have to take your responsibilities too.''
''Don't call me that.''
''It's about saving the universe, Doctor. When has that not been your responsibility?''
''Don't call me that,'' the one on the right repeats, and Petri sees his fists clench – as if in anger, as if he could maybe still feel something other than tiredness.
''I've been called. For the front lines. Again.''
It's still the one with a goatee speaking, and the corners of his eyes are pulled down by heavy lines, and the chest of the other one (the Doctor?) heaves.
They look tired, but also sad.
''We won't stand long, you know that. I'll have to go. And I'll probably die too.''
''You'll die if I do it.''
It's – the way the Doctor says it, the softness in his eyes, the gentle curve of the other man's smile when he hears it, it makes something clench, in Petri's chest, and her fingers tighten around O's hand.
Her cheeks are damp.
''That's my own problem to deal with.''
''Don't go.''
''You know what you have to do,'' the man with the goatee repeats, deaf to the Doctor's whispered plea.
The Doctor sighs, and closes his eyes. He looks old. He looks fragile. He looks to the man with the goatee and asks, ''Are you asking me to?''
''This is what I want.'' The man smiles, and it's sharp but there's something tender in it too, and the Doctor seems to bathe in it, his eyes drinking in the sight of his counterpart, as his body starts fraying at the edges, disappearing into the night. ''Please Doctor,'' the man says, and his voice is even more distant now, fading by the second, along with his face, ''save us.''
Then they are gone – and the last words come to Petri and O, carried by the wind. ''Save me.''
''Well,'' O says, after a while – where they stood in silence, watching the moon glinting off the surface of the sea, listening to birds cry and leaves rustle – and Petri turns to him and a ray of moonlight catches on a pearl of water attached to his eyelashes, on the glistening trail that goes down his cheek to the edge of his lips. Petri watches as they move. ''That was unexpected.''
Petri nods. She doesn't trust her voice yet. She has no idea what it is, that they have just witnessed, what those two men were talking about, but it felt both wrong, like they were stepping in on an intimate scene they weren't supposed to be private to, and right, like whatever just happened was meant for them to remember and keep in their chests behind their hearts. In her head, the humming is still calling to her, but it's slower, and comforting.
''Wha' d'ya think they were talking about?'' she asks, her voice rough.
O shrugs. The movement ripples down his right arm, and Petri is made acutely aware of all the places they are touching right now – their arms pressed together, still holding hands – hands that are getting hot and clammy, Petri realizes, but she doesn't remove hers. It's the most they've ever touched.
''Probably the laundry,'' O says, and it's so unexpected that it rips a startled laugh out of Petri, and O laughs at his joke too, both of them choking a little bit on it, until tears spill down their eyes again and Petri has to hide her face in O's shoulder.
O goes entirely still.
''You,'' Petri whispers, and she yawns – she's getting tired, really tired, for the first time since she came to the convent, and O's scent is surrounding her, something a distant part of her brains tells her she shouldn't be finding calming, but she does, and she smiles here, in the privacy of O's neck, skin so close she's sure O can feel her every breath.
It probably infuriates him.
She hopes it does.
''You have the worst sense of humour ever,'' she says.
O hums and – and his hand is on her shoulder, then in her hair, fingers slipping between strands, a thumb brushing at the skin above her head.
She yawns, again. Her nose brushes at his neck. She can almost feel his pulse. In her hair, his hand is soothing, and warm.
His neck must be warm, too.
Petri smiles and brushes her lips against it.
It's indeed warm.
The hand in her hair stops moving.
Then it's replaced by a mouth – a soft kiss, at the top of her head, and she hums contentedly, and O laughs, a soft laugh, that vibrates in his throat and through her head. ''You're impossible,'' he says, defeated, but there's a smile in his voice, and Petri thinks about kissing his neck again, then his jaw, and about sneaking an arm around his waist to bring him closer.
There's nothing stopping her, so she does just that.
It feels just as nice as expected.