Nicolae Vacarescu

"I will not stand for this any longer!" Nicolae Vacarescu had never felt more like the hero of his own story than in this precise moment. His voice rang across the ballroom with what he felt was admirable conviction, one hand pressed to his chest, the other gesturing dramatically toward Viola in her lilac gown, his lilac gown, really, a gift that made her look like a spring flower come to life. "Lady Katalin has made my beloved's life utterly miserable with her cruelty, and I refuse to bind myself to such a woman."

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Yes, Nicolae mused, exactly the reaction I was going for. I am a genius. This was going splendidly.

Katalin stood frozen near the refreshment table, her face unreadable. He didn't spare her more than a glance. She'd brought this on herself, really, with all her tedious corrections and nagging suggestions and 'Nicolae, perhaps you might consider', as if Viola needed to be told which fork to use or how to address a baroness. As if such things mattered.

"I wish to marry for love," he declared, warming to his theme. The chandeliers glittered overhead like they'd been placed there specifically to illuminate his moment of triumph. "Not politics. Not duty. And that is why I choose Lady Viola."

Viola smiled at him from across the room, eyes bright with what he was certain was adoration.

This is it, he thought. This is the moment everything changes. Father will bluster, Mother will fret, but eventually they'll see...

Then the ballroom doors opened. Nicolae's heart didn't so much sink as plummet directly through the marble floor and into whatever abyss lay beneath. Because there stood Duke Vasile Vacarescu, looking as though someone had handed him a bill for damages he'd been expecting for twenty-one years. And beside him, Duchess Ecaterina, ivory fan raised to hide the lower half of her face.

They were supposed to be in the Iron Confederacy. They were definitely supposed to be in the Iron Confederacy, visiting Mama's parents.

"Oh, Nicolae," his mother dryly remarked, and her voice carried that particular tone, the one that preceded sentences like 'we need to discuss your future' and 'I had hoped you'd prove me wrong'. "I do so wish you had even an iota of self-awareness."

"I-I—" Nicolae's voice cracked. "Mother, I can explain!"

"It's all a setup, boy." His father's sigh seemed to age him five years on the spot. "Surely even you must realize..."

"It was obvious she didn't actually like you." Katalin's voice cut through like a knife through the spun-sugar confection Nicolae suddenly felt himself to be. She shook her head slowly, something uncomfortably close to pity in her expression. "Silly boy."

Nicolae turned to Viola. Viola, who was already gliding across the ballroom floor toward his family. Toward Milan, who had materialized from somewhere behind their father with the quiet competence that had always made Nicolae feel slightly itchy. She giggled and he could almost feel the blood drain from his face.

"You are hereby disowned." His father's voice was weary. "Milan will assume the position of heir."

Milan, to his minimal credit, didn't smile. He simply crossed his arms and regarded Nicolae with an expression that might have been sympathy if it hadn't been so thoroughly laced with resignation.

"I hope you can learn to build a new life, brother." A pause. "Goodbye."

---

The next seventy-two hours existed in Nicolae's memory as a series of increasingly improbable humiliations.

The briefcase, hastily packed with his most treasured garments and absolutely nothing practical, grew heavier with each mile. The roads grew dustier. His shoes, designed for ballroom floors, developed opinions about cobblestones. The robbery, frankly, felt redundant.

By the time Nicolae's knees buckled on a busy market street, he had discovered several immutable truths about the world: bread cost money, money required either labor or charm, and his particular brand of charm apparently required a title to function. He hit the ground with less grace than he'd hoped.

At least, some delirious part of his mind offered, the cobblestones are quite cool. Pleasant, really. Perhaps I'll simply stay here.

Somewhere above him, people were laughing. Pointing. A chicken squawked indignantly near his ear.

And then... feet. Rather worn boots, actually, planted firmly in his field of vision.

"Oh," Nicolae managed, because his mother had raised him to acknowledge others' presence even while dying of starvation and humiliation in a public thoroughfare. "Hello."

Fortune, Nicolae decided, had finally remembered he existed.

"Come along then, lad," the largest of the three men said, clapping a hand on Nicolae's shoulder with enough force to rattle his teeth. "Can't have a fine young gentleman such as yourself wandering about looking so lost. We're what you might call... philanthropists."

"Aye," another agreed, grinning in a way that displayed a creative interpretation of dentistry. "We see a young man of obvious... quality..." His eyes lingered on Nicolae's signet ring. "and we think to ourselves, yeah, now there's a lad who deserves a hot meal."

"On us," the third added. "Completely free lad. No strings. Well." He chuckled. "Maybe some rope."

"Rope?" Nicolae blinked.

"Figure of speech, milord. Figure of speech. Don't think too hard about it."

How kind, Nicolae thought, as they steered him through winding streets. Perhaps the world isn't so terrible after all. Perhaps there are good people everywhere, and I simply never had occasion to meet them while sequestered in my gilded...

"Here we are. The Tovarich Tavern. Best stew in the city." The large man's smile widened. "Very... filling. Knocks you right out, it does."

"I do so enjoy a hearty stew," Nicolae interjected, already visualizing the feast in his mind. One of them made a noise that might have been a laugh strangled at birth.

The tavern was dim and smoky, the sort of establishment Nicolae had only ever read about in novels where handsome rogues seduced mysterious women over candlelit tables. In practice, it smelled aggressively of cabbage and regret. He didn't care. There was bread. He fell upon the food like a man possessed. Rye bread. Stew, gray and mysterious but piping hot and filling. Cheese that had seen better days but was still, fundamentally, cheese. Nicolae ate with an enthusiasm that would have made Nanny Ecaterina faint dead away and Katalin compose a three-page letter on proper deportment.

He shoved more bread in his mouth to smother the thought. Around him, the tavern had grown oddly quiet. Too many eyes tracked his movements, lingering on his embroidered vest, his fine-boned wrists, the gleam of gold on his finger. Nicolae didn't notice. Nicolae was far too occupied with experiencing the ale. He'd had wine, of course. Champagne at celebrations. The occasional cordial. This was... definitively different. Bitter and strange and somehow exactly what he needed. He drank deeply.

"Good, ain't it?" One of his benefactors leaned closer. "Special recipe. Very... relaxing."

"'S wonderful," Nicolae agreed, and frowned. His tongue felt thick. Uncooperative. Like it belonged to someone else and was merely visiting his mouth. "I want to... thankoo... for your..."

The room swayed. Or he swayed. Difficult to determine which.

"Think his Papa will pay extra to have all his teeth intact?" someone snickered, very far away.

Oh, Nicolae thought, with distant clarity. Oh, I see. Then he didn't see anything at all.

---

Consciousness returned like an unwelcome houseguest: slowly, painfully, and with complete disregard for Nicolae's preferences. His head pounded. His mouth tasted of regret and something herbal. And he was... moving? Yes, definitely moving, in a rattling, jolting sort of way that suggested either an earthquake or...

A wagon. I'm in a wagon.

Nicolae opened his eyes and stifled a groan. Wooden slats above him, a gray sky beyond. His wrists were bound. His ankles too. And there was something stuffed against his mouth, which seemed rather excessive given that he could barely remember how words worked.

I've been kidnapped, he realized. Like a maiden in a tower. Like Lady Masha in "The Highwayman's Heart." Chapter eleven. She was tied up just like this before Lord Blackwood—

This was not the time to be thinking about Lord Blackwood. The wagon hit a bump, and the bandana slipped down his chin. Nicolae coughed, eyes watering, and found himself staring up at an unfamiliar face.

Not one of the men from before. A woman. Someone new. Someone who was looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read, which was concerning because Nicolae was already quite bad at reading expressions even when his brain wasn't sloshing around his skull like soup in a tureen.

"I-I..." His voice cracked. He tried again. "I c-can explain. P-please." The word came out wobblier than intended. His eyes were burning. Definitely the dust. Certainly not tears. Vacarescus didn't cry in front of strangers, that's what washrooms were for. "I'll do anything. Whatever you want. I'm very... I-I'm quite useful, a-actually, I-I-I have many skills, I can... I can embroider... a-and I know things! I-important things, about important people, yes? And I'm certain we can come to some arrangement that doesn't involve..." He swallowed hard. "...whatever you're planning. Which I'm sure is very reasonable. Y-you seem reasonable. Is this... are these your ropes? They're quite well-knotted, I couldn't help noticing..."

She cannot find out you're worthless. She cannot find out no one will pay. Be charming. Be valuable. Be anything other than what you are.

"Mercy," he finished, very quietly, and hated how small it sounded. "Please. I'm begging you. I-I'll do anything."

A pigeon had been staring at Nicolae for the better part of ten minutes, and he was beginning to take it personally. He sat on a bench in Vranskhorod's town square, briefcase clutched to his chest like a shield, watching the bird watch him with beady, judgmental eyes. His stomach growled. The pigeon cooed. Neither of them had anything productive to offer the other.

This is fine, Nicolae reassured himself as the pigeon strutted by. I am fine. I am simply... resting. Gathering my strength. That's it. I'm just planning my next move. Like all wise strategists do.

His next move, as far as he could determine, was to continue sitting here until he fossilized or someone took pity on him, whichever came first. The trader who'd found him trudging along the roadside, a weathered woman with kind eyes who'd watched him clutch his briefcase like a drowning man clutches driftwood, had dropped him at the square with a pitying look and a muttered prayer to some local saint. That had been two hours ago. Nicolae had thanked her with all the grace his upbringing demanded and then promptly discovered that grace did not, in fact, fill one's stomach.

Sleep deprivation wasn't helping. He'd managed perhaps twenty minutes of rest between shipping crates in an alleyway before a demon wearing the skin of a tabby cat had descended upon him, yowling and spitting and chasing him into the street like he'd personally offended its ancestors. Nicolae had fled with as much dignity as one could muster at three in the morning while being pursued by an orange nightmare.

I could sell something, he thought, fingers tightening on his briefcase. Inside lay three embroidered shirts, his second-best vest, a miniature portrait of his family he couldn't bear to look at, and his journal of terrible poetry.

No. Absolutely not. These were all he had left. His stomach growled again, more insistently. Nicolae told it to be quiet in a tone that would have made Nanny proud. And then he smelled it.

Bread. Fresh bread. Warm and yeasty and alive, curling through the morning air like a personal invitation from God. Nicolae's head turned of its own accord toward a small bakery tucked at the far end of the square, away from the bustle of the main thoroughfare. The stall outside displayed neat rows of Roggenbrot* dark and dense; golden Kartoffelbrot studded with caraway; and... oh, saints above preserve him, a tray of Mohnstriezel, poppy seed rolls glistening with honey. Nicolae's mouth watered so aggressively he nearly drooled on his last clean shirt.

I could simply... take one.

The thought arrived fully formed, horrifying in its clarity.

No. Absolutely not. I am a Vacarescu. We do not steal. We have people who acquire things for us through legitimate...

His stomach cramped.

One loaf. Just one small loaf. They have dozens. They'd never miss it. Really, I'd be doing them a favor. Reducing surplus, preventing waste. Very economically minded of me.

He watched the baker, a woman, aproned and efficient, arrange a fresh batch of rolls before disappearing back inside the shop.

Now. She's inside, it's practically an invitation, I'll just... I'll leave an IOU. Mentally. A mental IOU. I am absolutely good for it. The Vacarescu name still means something in...

It did not, in fact, mean anything anymore. Nicolae shoved that thought into a small box and sat on it. He crept forward, attempting to make his tall frame as small as possible. This involved a sort of hunched scuttle that would have made his mother faint. The smell intensified as he approached: warm flour, sweet honey, the promise of something in his stomach that wasn't his own dignity.

Almost there. Just reach out and...

A streak of orange fury shot between his ankles. Nicolae recognized those malevolent eyes in the split second before his feet tangled, his balance abandoned him entirely, and he pitched forward with a strangled yelp directly into the bakery stall. Bread. Bread everywhere. Rolls bouncing off cobblestones, loaves tumbling from their baskets, Nicolae himself landing in a cascade of Roggenbrot with his face approximately two inches from a Mohnstriezel that smelled like heaven and mockery in equal measure. The cat sat three feet away, licking its paw with an air of smug satisfaction.

I will end you, Nicolae thought at it, with great sincerity.

A shadow fell over him. Nicolae looked up. The woman from before stared down, expression inscrutable, at the disaster that had formerly been her merchandise display and was currently serving as Nicolae's bread-based resting place.

"I-I—!" His voice emerged as a croak. He cleared his throat, summoning every ounce of aristocratic dignity available to a man lying in a pile of stolen pastries. "This is not what it looks like. I was merely protecting your wares," Nicolae continued, the lie arriving with the desperate fluency of a man who had absolutely no better options. "From the cat. That cat..." He pointed accusingly at the tabby, who blinked with an innocence that bordered on theatrical. "is a menace. A known bread thief, matter of fact. I saw it approaching with clear criminal intent and I simply... intervened... heroically," Nicolae added weakly.

Nicolae felt his face heat. His eyes, traitorously, began to sting. He was filthy, exhausted, starving, and lying in bread while a cat that had personally victimized him twice in twenty-four hours watched his humiliation with evident pleasure.

"I can fix this." He scrambled upright, rolls cascading off him like a carbohydrate waterfall. "I can... l-let me help! I'll clean everything, I'll pay you back." with what money, you absolute fool? "A-and I'll work. I can work. I have... skills. Just... tell me how to make this right."

"In the book," Nicolae panted, knee-deep in glacial water and clutching a sharpened branch, "Aleksandr speared six fish before noon."

The trout, a perfectly ordinary specimen, silver-scaled and insufferably smug, flicked its tail at him and vanished into the murky depths. Nicolae Vacarescu, formerly of the ducal Vacarescus, heir to nothing, had been bested by a fish. Not even a large fish.

Aleksandr, he was beginning to suspect, was a filthy liar.

The fishing had been attempt number one at wilderness survival. He'd gathered worms for bait, well, he'd tried to gather worms. The first one had wriggled against his fingers and Nicolae had shrieked at a pitch that sent birds fleeing from nearby trees. The branch-spear had seemed a dignified alternative. It was not. His foot found a mossy rock at precisely the wrong moment, and Nicolae discovered that glacial mountain streams were exactly as cold as they sounded. He dragged himself onto the bank like a drowned cat, dignity in tatters, and decided to forage instead.

Berries, he'd thought. Berries are simple. Even I cannot fail at berries.

The bush shook. Nicolae froze. A massive brown head emerged from the foliage, small eyes blinking at him with what he could only describe as irritation.

"Ah," Nicolae whispered. "Good afternoon. I see this is... your bush. My sincerest apologies for the intrusion. I'll just—"

The bear huffed. Nicolae ran.

Lord Blackwood would never, his brain supplied hysterically as branches whipped his face. Lord Blackwood faced down a bear with nothing but a hunting knife and his iron will. Lord Blackwood didn't scream like a-a....

He screamed anyways. The bear, thankfully, did not follow. Apparently he wasn't worth the effort. Nicolae chose not to examine how that made him feel.

Attempt number three: honey. He'd spotted the hive in a hollow oak, golden comb glistening in the afternoon light. His stomach cramped with longing. Just a taste. Just a small taste. How hard could it be?

The answer was: very. Nicolae made it approximately three steps up the tree before the first bee found him. Then the second. Then what felt like the entire vengeful population of the hive descended upon him in a furious, buzzing cloud. He ran again. Through brambles, over roots, past trees that blurred into a green-brown smear of escape escape escape, until darkness swallowed him and his foot caught on stone and the world tilted sideways.

Nicolae tumbled. Down, down, rolling and bouncing off earthen walls until he landed with a graceless whump in something soft and dry. Hay. Sticks. Scraps of fabric arranged in a circular pattern.

A nest, his dazed mind supplied. You've fallen into a nest. Like a baby bird. A pathetic, bruised, bee-stung baby bird.

He lay there, staring at the distant cave ceiling, cataloging his injuries. Scratches. Bruises. One eye swelling from a sting. Wet clothes clinging to shivering skin. And beside his head, half-hidden in the nest's wall: raspberries. A whole cache of them, ruby-red and perfect.

You shouldn't, conscience whispered. These belong to someone.

You'll die if you don't eat, survival countered.

Survival won. Nicolae devoured the berries without a second thought, juice staining his fingers and chin, too hungry to taste them properly. When they were gone, he curled into the nest's center and let exhaustion drag him under.

---

He awoke to the sensation of being watched. Not the passive watching of portraits in a gallery. Not the polite observation of courtiers at a ball. This was a predator watching. Watching prey. The kind of watching that made every hair on Nicolae's body stand at attention. His eyes snapped open.

Someone loomed above him, features shadowed, utterly still in a way that no court-trained human ever was.

Wild demihuman, Nicolae's brain supplied, somewhat unnecessarily. Uncollared. Untamed. You're in her nest. You ate her food. You're going to die here and no one will ever find your body.

"I can explain," he said, voice cracking. His hands flew up in surrender. "This is... I-I know how this looks. I wasn't t-trying to steal, I simply fell. There were bees, you see, an unreasonable number of bees, and then the cave, and I was so hungry, and your raspberries were just there, and I fully intended to repay you, I have..."

What? What do you have? Nothing. You have nothing.

"...excellent embroidery skills?" he finished weakly.

Every single one of Nicolae's ancestors was currently spinning in their gilded mausoleums, and honestly, he couldn't blame them. It had started, as these things do, with desperation and a pair of extremely suspicious twins.

"Looking for work?" the woman had called out, her dark hair gleaming in Eisenheim's pale afternoon light. Her brother stood beside her, mirror-image smirk firmly in place. "We could use someone with your... assets."

"Mira speaks true," the man added. "Room and board included. No hard skills required."

Nicolae's instincts, as underdeveloped as they were, had screamed danger. Something about the way Mira's eyes traveled down his body made him feel distinctly like a rabbit who'd wandered into a fox's den and been offered tea. But his stomach had been empty for two days, and his pride had been empty for longer.

"I," Nicolae had announced, puffing his chest out with entirely fabricated confidence, "am exactly the man you're looking for."

Mira and Kira had exchanged a look that should have sent him running. He had not run.

Past Nicolae, current Nicolae reflected miserably, was an absolute imbecile. Current Nicolae sat on a canopy bed draped in burgundy silk, wearing nothing but a pair of gossamer-thin linen breeches that left aggressively little to the imagination. The room smelled of jasmine and myrrh, heady and thick. Two fox demihuman women had spent the better part of an hour scrubbing him pink, oiling his skin until it gleamed, and arranging his hair in artful disarray.

"Very pretty," one had murmured, tweaking his braided sidelock. "The client will be pleased."

Client. Client. I have a client. I am going to...

Nicolae's brain shied away from completing that thought. Kira had appeared in the doorway moments ago, still wearing that insufferable smirk. "Simple job, golden boy. Just service the client." He'd made a gesture with his fingers that Nicolae wished desperately to unsee. "Surely a nobleman knows how these things work, yes?"

Nicolae had made a noise like a stepped-on dog toy. Now he was alone. Waiting. On a bed. In a brothel.

This is fine. I have... experience. Limited experience. Extremely limited experience. There was that one courtesan at Lord Petrescu's hunting party, and the incident behind the hedges with... no, don't think about that, don't think about Katalin, definitely don't—

The door handle turned. Nicolae's heart attempted to exit through his throat.

Act natural. Be seductive. You've read about this. Chapter fourteen of 'The Velvet Garden.' The protagonist lounged. I can lounge. Lounging is a skill I possess.

He flung himself onto his side with more enthusiasm than grace, propping his head on one hand. The pose felt... wrong. Deeply wrong. Like his elbow was in the wrong location and his legs didn't know what to do with themselves. A woman stepped through the doorway. Nicolae's mouth opened before his brain could intervene.

"Ah," he breathed, in what he desperately hoped was a sultry purr, "my kitten. I have been expecting you."