Things were finally settling down at the bank after the lunchtime rush. The tide of decent folk—those who made money by actually working, not those who got paid in tax money for lazing around all day—slowed into a trickle as they returned to work. People who came to the bank at this hour were laborers working the lunch or night shift; people whose jobs required them to go to the bank; or well-to-do people who didn’t have a fixed work schedule to keep up. So when a carriage parked in front of the bank, and a posh-looking woman emerged from it, the guard wasn’t remotely surprised. To him, it was just another pompous family coming to do something pompous, in the most pompous way possible. [i]Pompous.[/i]

The young woman sported a fine dress commonly worn by damsels from upper-middle-class backgrounds. She even wore one of those ridiculous hats with a wide brim that ladies wore because they were too lazy to hold their own umbrella or wanted to draw more attention to the hat than their faces.

A gust rushed past them, carrying the scent of roasted flesh along with it. The guard wrinkled his nose at the foul smell. There was no avoiding the stench while standing outside, especially downwind. It took the guard half an hour to get desensitized to it. Right when he thought it was gone from the air, the wind [i]graciously[/i] reminded him why he hated immolations. They always spoiled his appetite for meat. Then there were the screams. Those haunting screams. At least the winds could never carry those across the city. Whatever he felt, one good look at the lady and he could tell the smell affected her threefold.

The wind drained the color from the lady and robbed her of her breath. She staggered to the side but caught herself before her carriage driver reached over to steady her.

“Are you alright?” The older man tacked on the word [i]ma’am[/i] when he noticed they weren’t alone.

[color=DAF6C7]“Y-yes,”[/color] the lady said in the least convincing tone she could’ve mustered. [color=DAF6C7]“I just need a second.”[/color] She drew a fan from her purse and fanned herself, smacking the odor away. After a while, she touched the driver’s arm. [color=DAF6C7]“I’m fine now, thank you, Mr. Brisby.”[/color] They shared a look of camaraderie before the so-called Brisby respectfully backed away. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

He waited for another person to hop out of the carriage. The lady, however, waited for no one and escorted herself to the front doors. The severe lack of male guardians accompanying her baffled the guard. It was obvious the driver couldn’t be it, that’d be inappropriate, so what was a woman doing at the bank alone?

The guard fumbled for the door, barely opening it in time for the unusual customer. The lady—who, as it turned out, [i]didn’t[/i] have a face that only [url=https://roses-and-daggers.fandom.com/wiki/Caesonia_Kingdom#Religion]Sapreon[/url] could love—greeted him with a polite smile and thanked him before entering the bank.

“Oh!” He heard someone inside say, “Welcome, Ms. Vos! How can we be of service to you today?”

[hr][hr][center][h1][b][color=DAF6C7]Ríoghnach "Riona"[/color][/b][/h1][/center]
Riona “Vos” sank into the comfortable chair the bank clerk reserved for (welcomed) guests with a sigh. Not even an hour in this getup, and she felt more tired than she felt after long hours of cleaning. Say what you will about maid outfits, at least Riona didn’t feel so confined in them. Even as a child, she despised these fancy dresses, much to her mother’s dismay. Her grandmother was much more understanding, pointing out how the Caesonian aristocrats tamed their women through fashion: what trouble could they possibly get into if they could barely move? [color=DAF6C7][i]Or breathe. Gods! And pockets![/i][/color] Oh, what she’d give for a nice dress with damn pockets.

She brought the cup of tea close to her nose and inhaled deeply, pushing out the smoke of death in her lungs with wild bergamot and red clover. She sipped the tea appreciatively. It tasted exquisite, even more so given that she’d only been consuming water since the 48-hour fast began. At first, Riona considered turning down the offer of tea because of Lady Morrigan’s inspections, but then she remembered she had time to hide the evidence. She wasn’t reckless enough to risk eating the cardamom cookies, though. Her stomach grumbled.

The clerk looked up from the paperwork. “Please, Ms. Vos, have as many cookies as you like. We have plenty more.”

[color=DAF6C7]“No thank you,”[/color] color flared up in Riona’s cheeks, [color=DAF6C7]“I’m trying to cut down on snacks.”[/color] The clerk gave her the once over then returned his attention to the documents. He lived long enough to know that comments concerning a woman’s eating habits almost always led to trouble.

What he didn’t have was qualms expressing his disapproval with her monthly donations to charities and unions. For years, he tried to persuade Riona to invest in better business opportunities. This was Caesonia, after all. The land where power was proportional to wealth; “the weak-minded were poor.” Donations that didn’t lead to personal profit made no sense.

Riona took another sip from her cup as she watched the remnants of the clerk’s hair sway precariously in the air. One of them lost its grip and floated away when the clerk scowled at the numbers and mumbled about freeloaders. Every visit seemed to result in one less strand. Riona wondered how much hair would survive if the clerk ever found out the charities and unions were fronts.

The word “front” offended Quack. It implied that the charities and unions were scams. In all fairness, they did what they advertised: most of the money was spent to support the downtrodden. Riona argued they were still front groups because a portion of the donations funded anarchists.

A few years back, Quack approached Riona for a favor. He needed different places to stash money without raising alarms, so he asked her—and many others—to open a bank account. At first glance, it’d appear to be a bunch of people with their own bank accounts, but take a step back, it’s the havens’ treasury.

There was, however, one problem: Riona was a woman. An orphaned, unmarried woman living in a patriarchal society. Without a male guardian, it was impossible for her to create an account—a fact which, apparently, slipped Quack’s mind (or he had certain opinions about her that should remain unsaid). Thus, to solve the problem, Riona did the only thing she could’ve done. She proposed to Dan the stablehand.

Riona turned her head to the seat next to her. It was vacant, but she could see him sitting there.

She remembered how the stunned stablehand broke down into a bright red, sweaty mess who floundered to speak or move so much that Riona thought he was having a stroke. His unabashed smile when he said [i]yes[/i] made her heart skip a beat back then, and it still did now. The twinge of guilt and confusion she felt when she clarified they would only be pretending, and saw how crestfallen he looked by her words. She remembered the rush of emotions on his face that followed when she answered his questions: the worry, the fear, and the resolve. Despite whatever reservations he had, he still said [i]yes[/i].

There, in the neighboring chair, Dan demanded the bank to open a joint account for himself and his future wife. True, they were merely betrothed, but they were rich (didn’t they see their expensive outfits?) and they did not take no for an answer! Dan succeeded in exuding the special kind of snobbery and elitism seen in the higher echelons of society. Combined with Riona’s haughtiness adding to the act, they convinced the bank that storing the couple’s money in their bank was far more lucrative than wasting either party’s time trying to get them to bring a marriage certificate. Besides, they had Dan’s official documents. Should their engagement or marriage fall apart, the bank had the important person on record.

At least the bank and Riona agreed; Dan was the important one. He was, in fact, one of the most important people in Riona’s life. So important that thinking about him brought her equal amounts of joy and pain, misery and longing. Every detail of him she pulled from her memories made the hole in her heart grow a little wider; hollow ever deeper.

Dan faced Riona, proudly holding the brand-new bankbook in his hand. His radiant smile blurred Riona’s vision.

The clerk cleared his throat, forcing Riona to turn to him. He held one of the many handkerchiefs he had stockpiled behind his desk aloft. Patiently, he waited. The annoyance that plagued him seconds ago vanished without a trace. It took a second to register that he was waiting on her. Only then did she realize it was the pool of tears that blurred her vision and not Dan’s smile.

She accepted the handkerchief and dabbed the tears away.
“Mr. Vered was a fine man.”
[color=DAF6C7]“Yes, he was.”[/color] Riona nodded between dabs. [color=DAF6C7]“I’m afraid I lost my only chance at happiness.”[/color]

“[i]One[/i] of your chances at happiness,” the clerk corrected, his voice soft and kind. His gaze drifted to his folded hands. “Losing a loved one is not the end of the world, contrary to what you might feel right now.” His somberness suggested he spoke from experience. “You have your whole life ahead of you, Ms. Vos. There are plenty of fine men out there, and there are plenty of chances for happiness.”

Riona knew he meant well. But she also knew—felt and believed—with every fiber of her being that what he said was nowhere near the truth. Not a single word.