Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Any one of various entertainments may be given to present a young girl to society. The favorite and most elaborate of these, but possible only to parents of considerable wealth and wide social acquaintance, is a ball.

Emily Post Etiquette 1922

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miles stared at the embossed gold lettering on the cream-colored invitation. He had read it twice and it still said the same thing.

"What's that, Miles?"

He looked up and met Vesya's inquiring gaze. She sat at the end of the table that was serving as his desk while they shared the lunch she had brought him. He exchanged the invitation for a segment of an orange and said nothing while she read it. Her pale brows furrowed slightly. "What's a…debutt?"

"It's pronounced de-byu," Miles replied. "Little Miss Catherine is being formally introduced into society. It's something rich people do. It's a little like a fifteenth birthday, except without benefit of clergy."

Vesya gave a little frown. "Are you going to go?"

Miles held up the envelope. It was addressed to Colonel and Mrs. E. Miles. "We're both invited, sweetheart." He regarded his wife appreciatively. "I'd love to see you in an evening gown."

Vesya's eyes widened. "An evening gown?"

"It's not something you sleep in."

She nudged his elbow. "I know that, Miles! But I don't have anything like that, certainly not the kind Amestrian ladies wear." She frowned anxiously. "Maybe if I helped her, Rada could make me one. Maybe Jean could ask his mother to send some patterns—"

"No, we're not going to bother Rada with something like that. She's got enough to cope with being pregnant."

"With twins!" Vesya sighed wistfully.

"Exactly. We'll see about hiring an Amestrian dressmaker."

Vesya's brows puckered doubtfully. "Won't that be awfully expensive?"

"I am pulling down a colonel's salary. We'll manage."

Vesya still seemed unconvinced. "I think I would be out of place."

"No more than I would be."

"I would feel more out of place."

Miles grinned at her. "Frankly, I think you'd steal the show from the debutante."

"Eh-h!" Vesya gave him a sidelong look, but she smiled with pleasure. "Go on with you!"

"I'm serious! The more I think about it, the more I'm looking forward to showing you off to Amestrian high society."

"I won't know anybody!" Vesya argued.

"You know General Armstrong."

"Mm," Vesya replied noncommittally.

Miles raised an eyebrow slightly. His wife still had mixed feelings about the general, but he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life assuring her that she really was the only woman in his life. Maybe this would help prove it to her. "You'll like the Armstrongs. I can see you and Catherine hitting it off."

He could see her resistance begin to crumble. "Shua met them. He said they were nice." She looked back at the invitation. "Buffett…" She looked questioningly at Miles. "Buffay?"

"That's right. That's when they set out a bunch of food and you take what you like."

"Buffet supper and dance. Well, that sounds normal, anyway."

Miles' lips twitched in a half smile. "Not exactly."

He looked up at the sound of rustling canvas. Fort Ishval, like the rest of the province, was still being built, and its headquarters would be operating out of a tent for a few more weeks. Scar was ducking his shoulders through the tent flaps as he entered, holding up an identical invitation. He seemed somewhat perturbed.

"Miles, what is this?"

Miles lifted his hands. "Just what it says."

Scar gave the invitation a look as though it might have been infected with something. "She doesn't actually think I'd go, does she?"

"Oh, I don't know," Miles replied with a slight grin. "Don't you think it's about time for your coming out?"

Scar frowned, unamused. "I don't think so."

Miles took another orange slice and sat back in his chair. "What gets me is how she got mixed up in this in the first place."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong had spent several sleepless nights wondering the same thing.

Around the beginning of March, her telephone rang and she distractedly picked it up as she was sorting through paperwork, which was enough to put her in a sour mood all by itself. She wished she had ignored the ringing, but she knew it wouldn't have done her any good, considering who ended up being on the other end of the call.

"Yes?" she snapped, which was her usual way of answering the phone.

"Olivier?" A deep voice rolled out her name in the form of a question.

The paper in her hand stilled. "Father?"

"Ah, yes, it is you." He sounded pleased. "How are you, my dear?"

"I'm fine," Olivier replied briskly. Then she remembered that this was her father, after all. She softened her tone slightly. "How are you? How is Mother?"

"Oh, we're in fine fettle!" Phillip replied jovially. "It's amazing what a bit of travel can do for one. I feel ten years younger, and your mother—we-e-ll!" He chuckled in a way that made Olivier shudder slightly. "At any rate, I just wanted to let you know that we're back in town and I must say I love what you've done to the place although your mother was a little unhappy about her mauve portieres in the morning room—"

"That's great, Father," Olivier said quickly. She wasn't going to let him get on a roll. "I'm glad you're back and I'm glad everyone is well—"

"—but she said she could get used to the ivory ones that you replaced them with since they really do brighten up the room which is a morning room after all and the grounds look lovely as well but there seems to be a bit of damage in the cellar. What were you storing down there? Tanks?" Phillip let out a long, deep chuckle, ending with a sigh of contentment at his own humor. "Ah, yes…Well!" he declared decisively. "Little Catherine has blossomed into quite the young woman while we were away and let me tell you she turned a few heads at the Imperial Court during our Xingese sojourn and your mother and I agreed that once we got back we really did need to finally have her do her season—"

Olivier ground the heel of her hand against her forehead and gritted her teeth. "That's great, Father. I hope you have lots of—"

"—but of course we are technically guests in the house since you are now head of the family but don't worry we've been through this sort of thing before and we'll walk you through it and Catherine is ever so excited—"

"Father!"

There was finally silence on the other end of the line until there was a brusque clearing of a throat. "Yes, Olivier?"

She spoke slowly. "What are you talking about? As briefly as possible!"

"Why, I'm talking about Catherine's coming out, of course."

"And what the…what does that possibly have to do with me?"

"You, Olivier, are the head of the Armstrong family," Phillip replied, speaking as slowly as she was. "It is your responsibility to host the occasion."

Olivier's mouth dropped open, which wasn't something that happened very often. "Host?"

"Well…hostess, to be more precise."

"Father, I don't know jack sh—I have no idea how to—"

"Oh, tut, tut! It's as easy as pie, really!" Phillip assured her. "These things practically run themselves!"

"No, they don't! The servants do all the work!"

"There you are, then! Problem solved! Shall we set it for July?"

Well, that's how it happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're supposed to send the response card to the house through the mail in the self-addressed-goddamn-stamped envelope!" Olivier snapped irritably.

"I did send the response card, ma'am, and in plenty of time," Miles replied sedately. "I just wanted to tell you personally."

He heard a rush of breath over the radio headphones. Telephone lines were slowly but surely marching their way toward Ishval, but it would be a while yet. "Sorry, Miles," Olivier muttered. "I'm feeling a little…antisocial these days. More than usual, I mean."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Olivier closed her eyes. God, it was good to hear that strong, calm voice. "How are you?" she asked, her tone warmer.

"I'm very well, ma'am."

"And Mrs. Miles?"

"Also well, thank you."

"And how are your silver hawks?"

"Shaping up. We're fine, General. You're the one I'm concerned about."

"Tch! You're probably wondering what the hell I think I'm doing."

"Not in so many words, but it did cross my mind."

"I think this is my parents' subtle payback scheme," Olivier growled. "I wrested control of the family as a front to keep them safe, and this is the thanks I get. They want to put on a party and dance and eat the night away while I get to stand around greeting their hideous friends and making sure my sisters get to dance with someone other than Alex or each other. The plan, apparently, is to invite more men than women. According to my mother, these things are a failure if each woman isn't asked to dance at least five times with five different men. Even if I have to persuade them at sword point, someone is going to give Amue and Strongine their five damn dances each!"

"I'll volunteer for hazard duty if you need me to, ma'am," Miles offered. "Once, anyway."

"I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, but be prepared. They'll try to lead."

"I understand. What sort of reinforcements can I count on?"

"You mean who's invited? I don't know. I don't want to know. If you really want to know, call the house. My mother hired some sort of brutally efficient secretary for me. She's supposed to be handling this shit! All I have to do is show up."

"Then I'll see you there, General," Miles said.

Olivier smiled wearily. "That's about the only thing I'm looking forward to, Miles."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miles enjoyed watching how wide Vesya's eyes got as they drove from Central Station out to the high-rent suburbs. She gazed out through the window of the taxi as though she couldn't get enough of all the sights. He particularly savored the get out of town expression on her face when he told her that the immaculately cultivated landscape they were traveling along was not a public garden but the Armstrong's front yard. But it was nothing compared to the way her mouth dropped open as they drove up to the house itself.

"This is where General Armstrong lives?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"It's where Retired General Armstrong lives. Major General Olivier Armstrong comes here very seldom."

Vesya nodded, still gazing with wonder at the magnificent façade of the mansion. "How many people live here?" she asked.

"Well, there's the family," Miles replied. "Phillip and Sophia, their son Alex, and their daughters Amue, Strongine, and Catherine. Then there is a fairly sizable staff."

The taxi curved around the fountain and came to a stop at the front steps. Miles got out of the car and went to open the door on Vesya's side while the taxi driver opened up the trunk. As Vesya stepped out of the car and leaned back a little to take in the massive mansion's exterior, she was startled as three identically dressed young men burst out from the front door, trotted briskly down the steps, snatched up the luggage, and strode purposefully back into the house with it. She stared after them.

"But…that's…"

"It's all right," Miles assured her as he paid the driver. "Not only will it all be waiting in our room, it will all be unpacked and put away."

"I could have done that," Vesya murmured.

Miles laughed softly. "That's not how the upper class works, sweetheart." He looked back up toward the steps. "Alex!" he called out. "It's good to see you again!"

"Colonel Miles!" a loud, deep voice boomed. "This is a delight!"

Vesya gave a start at the sight of a large man walking down the steps toward them. He had a thick blond mustache and, except for a single lock of blond hair, his bald head glittered in the sun. As he got closer, he only got bigger.

"Major Armstrong," Miles began. "I would like you to meet my wife, Vesya. Vesya, this is the general's brother, Major Alex Louis Armstrong."

Vesya timidly offered her hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you," she said.

Alex's face puckered up as though he was about to cry. He took Vesya's hand, which disappeared completely in his enormous fist, and he bowed. "I am deeply—deeply honored to meet such a distinguished and, may I say, exquisitely lovely lady!"

Vesya wondered if she would ever see her hand again. "Oh…thank you…but…I'm not really..."

"And modest as well!" Alex rumbled approvingly. Somewhere underneath that mustache was a smile. "I understand that you are first cousin to the Honorable Provincial Governor of Ishval, a gentleman with whom I share some—ahem—small acquaintance. He may even remember me."

"Of course he does," Miles said. "He even asked me to convey his greetings to you. He said he recalls your brief meeting in East City."

"Does he now?" Alex exclaimed, his laugh booming and echoing off the front of the mansion. "Our brief meeting! Yes, it was indeed memorable!" He sobered for a moment. "But I am so very glad that your people have been restored to your homeland! Very glad indeed!" With a slight bow, he swept one of his large hands toward the front doors of the house. "Come inside!" he boomed gallantly. "It's very nearly lunch time, and Father and Mother will be very pleased to see you both!"

He led them up the steps and through the tall entry doors. Vesya gazed around at the towering ceiling of the foyer. It was painted to look like a blue sky with puffy white clouds, little fat flying babies, and swans with ribbons in their beaks. Down on the ornately tiled floor, people scurried noiselessly but purposefully, and they were all dressed alike in black and white. Most of the men wore knee breeches and white stockings and white gloves, and the women wore crisp white aprons and little frilled caps. They all seemed to be very busy carrying things or polishing things or adjusting things.

There were two curving staircases on either side of the foyer, and coming down one of them was a young woman in a pink dress. She had flowing blond hair and large blue eyes, and an errant lock of hair sprang up just above her forehead.

"Ah, Catherine!" Alex's voice echoed even more resonantly inside. "Come and greet our guests!"

The girl approached them with a shy smile and she held out her hand. "Colonel Miles!" she said in a high, soft voice. "It's so good to see you again! It's been too long!"

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Catherine," Miles replied, inclining his head and taking her hand.

Catherine turned to Vesya. "And you must be Mrs. Miles!" The girl beamed at her, and Vesya could have sworn she saw a gleam of light sparkle from the girl's shining blonde hair. "It's so lovely to meet you!"

"Miss Catherine, this is my wife, Vesya," Miles said.

"Vesya! That's such a pretty name!" Catherine breathed.

"Thank you, Miss Catherine," Vesya replied. She was finding it a little difficult to imagine that this girl was related to either her giant of a brother or to her severe older sister.

"You don't have to call me 'miss', honestly! It's just Catherine!" The girl took both of Vesya's hands in hers. "I'm so glad you could come! I'll show you where your room is so you can freshen up! And then after lunch, Madame Clothilde is coming to do our fittings!"

"Our…fittings?"

"Oh, yes!" Catherine replied. "Our ball gowns! Mine is going to be pale pink, and she'll pick out the perfect color for you! She's a little odd, but she's simply amazing!" She gave a deep sigh. "I'm so excited! Mother says there are all kinds of nice young men coming! I just hope they're even a little like my brother!"

Vesya turned obligingly but a little uncertainly to Alex, who stood beaming proudly. "Your brother does seem very nice," she said.

"Oh, yes! He is!" Catherine replied. "He's also very strong! I really do prefer men who are quite muscular, don't I, Alex?"

"You do, indeed!" Alex exclaimed portentously.

"Oh, God!" Vesya heard Miles mutter under his breath.

In a remarkably smooth motion, Alex tore off his shirt, which soared into the air. He then struck an attitude calculated to display his bare musculature to its most glorious advantage. With well-practiced efficiency and without so much as a second glance, several of the people dressed in black and white gathered up both the shirt and the buttons that had gone flying. Vesya got the impression that this was something that must happen fairly often.

Catherine linked her arm through Vesya's and led her toward the stairs. "I made sure they put you and the colonel in a room overlooking the garden. I think you'll like it!" She looked back over her shoulder at Miles. "Ollie got here a little while ago. She's hiding in her room," she added, rolling her eyes.

"Who is Ollie?" Vesya asked as they made their way upstairs.

"Oh, that's our big sister," Catherine replied with a smile. "You know, the major general."

Vesya paused on the steps. "Ollie?" she repeated, a bit incredulously.

Catherine giggled. "I'm the only one who calls her that. No one else would dare!"

Chapter Text

Third, there is the highly formal company luncheon, long drawn out, and, many think, over-elaborated. This should never be attempted without the services of a trained corps of household staff.

Breakfasts, Luncheons and Dinners, How To Plan Them, How To Serve Them, How To Behave At Them Mary Chambers, 1923

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

As Miss Sharp consulted the pages of her notebook, Olivier glared out the window of her room, her jaw clenched. The woman was forever riffling through that damn notebook of hers, as though she kept all the secrets of life, the universe, and everything in it. Olivier was extremely close to shoving the thing up the woman's rectum, except that it was probably so tightly clenched nothing could pass either in or out. That would explain a lot.

"…all told, the final number of guests is at five hundred and fifty," the woman pronounced. She spoke with all her words forced up at the front of her mouth, which she never seemed to open more than a fraction of an inch. "Are you quite sure you would not care to look over the guest list?"

"What the hell for?" Olivier muttered back. "I wouldn't know who any of these people are. My name was at the top of the invitations, but this is not my party." Her scowl deepened. "I don't do parties. I don't like parties. Parties suck ass."

Miss Sharp got a little stiffer and softly cleared her throat. That was about as much of a rise as anyone could get out of her. Olivier had to admit, she was a tough one.

"Very good, Miss Armstrong," Miss Sharp replied with frozen deference, subtly indicating her disapproval at such flagrant disregard for The Way Things Ought To Be Done. She flipped through a few more pages. "I have the final estimate of the expenses if you would care to peruse them."

"Show them to my father. He's the one footing the bill for this dustup."

"Very good, Miss Armstrong. Will that—" A knock at the door caused Miss Sharp's lips to purse even more tightly together.

"Come in!" Olivier called out, turning toward the door, grateful for any interruption, even if it was Alex.

The door opened and Miles stepped into the room. Olivier's irritation and borderline murderous inclinations disappeared and she had to stop herself from grinning ear to ear. She did, however, let her pleasure show in her voice. "Miles!" she exclaimed.

Miss Sharp turned to acknowledge the newcomer with a stiff bend of her neck.

"Sorry," Miles said. "Am I interrupting something?"

"You sure as hell are, thank God!" Olivier replied warmly.

Miss Sharp cleared her throat softly. "Will that be all, then, Miss Armstrong?"

"Yes, damn it!" Olivier snapped. "That was more than enough!"

Miss Sharp closed her notebook. "Very good, Miss Armstrong." With one more stiff bend in Miles' direction, she headed to the door, which Miles held open for her. "Thank you, Colonel," she murmured primly.

Miles closed the door behind her and strode across the room until he was at the requisite six paces from his former commander. He snapped a salute. "General Armstrong!"

Olivier returned his salute. "Glad you could make it, Colonel," she said, liking the way that sounded.

"I'm very happy to be here, General," Miles replied. "I was honored by your invitation."

"Well, I didn't touch the guest list, but at least my mother had the sense to add you to it."

Miles smiled at her. "You look well, ma'am," he observed.

"So do you," Olivier replied. That was an understatement, she thought. Maybe it was just because she hadn't seen him in a while. Maybe command just suited him. But he looked wonderful. He looked so relaxed under those extra stars on his shoulders. He didn't have his dark glasses on either, so she was treated to the full impact of his handsome features. She gave a quiet, internal sigh. It probably wasn't just command that suited him. "How is Mrs. Miles?"

Miles grinned, and Olivier was embarrassed to find herself somewhat disappointed. There was no doubting that he was clearly a happy, satisfied man. "She's just fine, ma'am, thank you for asking. Catherine is showing her our room, which is just a couple doors down the hall." He gave a slight nod toward the door. "Who was that?"

Olivier sighed. "That was Miss Sharp, the secretary my mother hired to take keep track of all the details of this thing. She's apparently being paid to think that I give a shit."

"I have to say, ma'am, I'm looking forward to it," Miles said. "I haven't been to a bash here at the mansion for years, not since your parent's thirtieth anniversary. I've always felt very welcome here."

Olivier gave a curt nod. "Well, you damn well are, Miles! My father may be a walking fossil, but he knows a good officer when he sees one." She gave a smirk. "And Amue and Strongine have always had a crush on you."

"Yes, well…" Miles gave a quiet laugh. On previous visits he had spent some very nervous moments cornered like a rat with the two gargantuan Armstrong sisters looming over him and tittering behind their fans. "I've been asked to let you know that lunch is in a few minutes. Will you be joining us?"

"I've been trying to avoid meals with the whole tribe," Olivier replied with a slightly curled lip. "But I'll make an exception now that you're here."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

In the short space of time that they had been acquainted, Vesya felt like she had been adopted by Catherine as a bosom friend, and she couldn't help actually feeling like one. There was something immediately appealing and welcoming about the youngest of the Armstrong siblings, rather like her brother, compacted down to a smaller scale.

They stood looking out the window down into the garden, which, as Catherine had promised, was a lovely view. Vesya was always amazed at how green the rest of Amestris was compared to Ishval, or Briggs for that matter. But the lushness spread out before her was exceptional. She could see people busily working outside, tending to the landscape, digging, trimming, watering, and weeding. Their house in Ishval wasn't finished yet, but she had already started her kitchen garden, and that in itself was plenty of work.

Beside her, Catherine gave a contented sigh. "I can hardly wait!" she breathed. "I've been waiting for this for so long! All my friends have already had their debuts. One of my friends is already married. I feel so old!"

Vesya smiled. Miles had told her that Catherine was around nineteen or twenty, only a few years younger than she was. "In Ishval, a girl celebrates her fifteenth birthday as when she becomes a woman. A long time ago, girls were considered old enough to marry by then."

Catherine's eyes widened. "At fifteen?"

"They don't anymore," Vesya said quickly. She smiled. "But we still were very excited about turning fifteen. For one thing, it meant we could dance with boys that we weren't related to." She paused for a moment, then let out a little laugh.

Catherine turned to her, intrigued. "What's so funny?"

"I was just remembering the time I first danced with Miles. It was just the two of us together. I'd never danced like that before!"

Catherine joined in her laughter. "It is fun, isn't it?"

Vesya nodded. "We've been practicing a lot before we came here, too. I know how to polka and waltz and even foxtrot."

"We'll certainly be doing plenty of those," Catherine said. "My parents like to add some old-fashioned ones, too, like a mazurka. It's sort of complicated, but it's nice to watch."

"Miles started to teach me that, but we didn't have enough time to really finish," Vesya said.

"That's all right," Catherine replied cheerfully. "Not that many people know it. Maybe you could just sit that one out, unless a gentleman happens to put his name down on your dance card for it."

Vesya looked at her, puzzled. "My what?"

"Your dance card," Catherine repeated. "I know they're rather old-fashioned these days, but my parents are rather old-fashioned."

"Um…" Up until now, Vesya felt she was fairly well prepared for this occasion. "What's a dance card?"

Catherine put her fingers to her mouth. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry! I didn't mean to sound all high society. It's just a little book that lists all the dances that are going to be performed by the orchestra that evening. All the ladies are given one, and the gentlemen are supposed to write their names down for whatever dance they'd like to dance with that lady. It's rather a good idea, really, but it lacks spontaneity, I think."

Vesya was still puzzled. "But…I thought…" She frowned. She didn't want to appear ignorant, but she was growing slightly alarmed. "I thought I would just be dancing with Miles. I mean…he's my husband."

Catherine laughed lightly. "Oh, you can't do that! That's unsociable!"

"But I don't…I've never danced with anyone but Miles before! I mean, not this sort of dancing." Vesya's brows puckered anxiously. "Are you sure it's all right?"

"Of course it is!" Catherine replied. "Why, I probably won't even dance with the same man twice the whole evening!"

"Oh." Vesya decided not to pursue it. She would mention it to Miles later. He had failed to sufficiently prepare her for the rigors of life at Briggs, and although this was by no means on the same level, she refused to make a fool of herself again, and certainly not in front of Major General Armstrong.

Through the open door of the bedroom, they could hear a small gong being struck. "Oh! That's lunch!" Catherine announced. "Let's go!"

They stepped out into the hall just as Miles and Olivier were passing by it. Olivier paused to face Vesya.

"Mrs. Miles. Good to see you again," she said, sounding like she meant it.

They were about the same height. Vesya was even an inch or so taller, and the general wasn't even in uniform. She wore a simple white blouse and grey trousers. But Vesya still felt intimidated. This might not have been Briggs, but the major general was still head of the household, a circumstance that Vesya still couldn't quite understand, since both her parents were in residence in this very house. She wasn't sure she would ever quite understand some of the things Amestrians did or why they did them.

Vesya drew herself up and gave a pleasant smile. After all, Miles had ultimately chosen her and her people over Briggs. She held out her hand, and she was pleased that the general took it.

"It's good to see you, too, General Armstrong," she said warmly. "How is everyone up at Briggs?" She suddenly grew serious. "What's the news from Drachma?"

Olivier registered a moment of mild surprise. "Interestingly enough," she said, "there's been a bit of a shake-up in Drachma."

"Yes, I meant to ask about that," Miles said. He gave his wife a slight smile. "Vesya beat me to it."

"It's not official, just a preliminary report from one of our operatives," Olivier went on as they continued down the corridor toward the stairs. "But it appears there was something of a power struggle within the ruling elite. A lateral coup, you could call it."

Miles nodded. "One cabal of paranoid plotters ousted the other cabal of paranoid plotters?"

"Exactly. Only this new group appears to be a lot more cautious than the last bunch," Olivier said. "The push for rearmament has been cut back considerably, mainly because people were literally starving. Their miserable crops were dying in the fields for lack of anyone to harvest them. Everyone had been either drafted into the army or sent to work on munitions." She shrugged. "So, no imminent invasion."

"Well, that's a relief!" Vesya remarked.

"Hm!" Olivier offered. "Now we have a hangar full of state-of-the-art tanks and no place to use them." She turned to Miles with a grin. "Unless we bring them to the next training exercise. We'll see how your silver hawks stack up against my bears."

Miles chuckled quietly. "Bring it, ma'am."

"Oh, Ollie!" Catherine chided softly. "I hope you're not going to talk shop all through lunch."

"I hate to break it to you, Catherine," Olivier replied dryly, "but there are larger issues at stake than you finding a husband."

Catherine made no reply, but Vesya could tell that the girl would probably not be convinced otherwise.

A short time later, Vesya was standing behind the chair that had been designated for her by means of a small white card with her name on it that sat at the top of her place setting. No one else was sitting yet, so she stayed where she was, carefully observing what everyone else did. She had been introduced to the rest of the family who were present. There was Phillip and Sophia, a rather mismatched couple in appearance but quite obviously devoted to each other. Then there was Phillip's cousin Oswald Armstrong-Zimmerman and his wife Priscilla. They both spoke extremely softly but didn't bother to repeat themselves if no one heard them. There was also their son, Ignatz, who was tall and weedy with unruly red hair and who spoke rather loudly but didn't say anything worth repeating.

"I say!" he exclaimed as he pumped Vesya hand as though expecting her to spout water. "Gosh! I've never met an Ishvalan before! I mean, not a real one!"

"And she's probably never met a real idiot before!" Olivier growled at him.

Ignatz was apparently inured to verbal abuse. Before Vesya could say anything, he scampered over to Miles and worked his arm up and down as well. "Gosh, there's two of you! I say!"

"Now that everyone knows you can count that high, Iggy," Olivier said, giving him a shove, "go away."

Then there were the two middle sisters, Amue and Strongine. Miles had actually described them to Vesya, so she was prepared, but Amue and Strongine almost defied description. "Big healthy girls" did not do them justice. They certainly looked healthy. They were girls. They were also bigger than their brother Alex.

The two sisters had been placed at the other side of the table, where Miles' seat was. As they moved to their places, they turned to Miles and made little tittering murmurs of greeting. He gave them each a little bow of his head, looking gracious and a little nervous at the same time. While Amue was busy simpering at him, Strongine slowly reached over and switched two of the name cards. Amue happened to catch this act out of the corner of her eye and turned swiftly to give her sister a murderous glare.

"Really, Strongine!" she huffed. "How childish!" She promptly put the name cards back to their original position, and Strongine stuck her tongue out at her.

"Now, now, girls!" their father chided them as he escorted Sophia to her chair at the head of the table. "Now, now, now!"

Apparently chastened, Strongine moved a couple of seats down and stood behind it, moping. Amue, with a look of supreme satisfaction, clamped a large proprietary hand on the back of the chair next to Miles.

"Oh, I say, there's my seat!" Iggy chirped as he wedged himself between the two large sisters, where he looked like a carrot sandwiched between two large buns. The sisters eyed him as though he was a bug.

Phillip pulled out the chair at the head of the table for his wife, and as he did so, the other men in the room pulled the chairs out for the other ladies. Miles knew better than to do this for Olivier, so he puled Amue's chair out for her. As she sank into her seat, she gave him a look that clearly indicated that she wanted nothing better than to slather him with butter. While Alex pulled her chair out for her, Vesya had to look away from the helpless expression on her husband's face and she bit her lip to keep from smiling.

The table was, at the very least, confusing to Vesya. She had been expecting something like the officers' mess at Briggs, which compared to Ishval, was rather grand. This far exceeded anything she had imagined. When all of her family sat down at once, it was a fairly large number as well, but it would be a comfortable, homey affair. This table reminded her more of Dr. Marcoh's surgery. Even with the large spray of flowers in the center of the table, it still looked rather sterile. There were large plates set out, surrounded by a crowd of glasses and bowls and no less than seven different gleaming utensils, much to Vesya's dismay. She thought she knew what to expect, but once again, she had come up short. And this was just lunch.

Watching the others, she took the napkin that sat folded at the lower left of her place setting. She unfolded it and placed it on her lap. Then the courses, starting with a chilled fruit compote, were brought out. Vesya carefully kept an eye on Alex, who sat at her left, to see what he did next, and she was able to surmise rather quickly that the utensils generally were used starting from the outside and working one's way in.

After the fruit came a cold tomato soup, then came roast pork, peas, and potatoes that had been shredded into small bits. The servants moved silently and efficiently, putting food in front of each guest at their left side and removing plates from the right. It was all delicious, but it was a lot of food.

Vesya found herself becoming more and more comfortable among the Armstrong family. Alex in particular had been very kind and attentive throughout the meal, keeping her engaged in conversation about what life was like in Ishval and how things had improved. It was something he seemed very concerned about. By the end of the meal, which concluded with something called trifle, Vesya was stuffed, but she felt she had come out of the ordeal with flying colors. Then she burped.

It wasn't like it was a common practice in Ishval, but it wasn't a big deal, either, especially when you were among family. She had become so relaxed, particularly with the couple of glasses of wine she had drunk, it just slipped out. It wasn't a little ladylike burp, either. She ripped out a fairly resonant belch, which was followed by a moment of silence. Even the cutlery stilled.

"Oh, I say!" Iggy squealed, shredding through the silence. "How funny!"

Vesya had her hand clapped over her mouth and her eyes riveted to the tablecloth. She felt like her face was on fire. There was some light tittering around the table, and she finally dared to glance across at Miles. He just gave her an affectionate look and a smile, but it didn't make her feel much better.

Sophia smiled benignly at her and motioned to one of the servants. "Smithers, please convey Mrs. Miles' compliments to Cook," she said in a very kind tone.

Smithers gave a little bow. "Very good, ma'am."

Vesya still didn't feel any better.

Chapter Text

A gown is chosen with much premeditated consideration for so momentous an occasion as being ushered into society. The young lady does well to seek the advice of her friends who are already in society, and of her modiste, who knows by long experience just what is correct and becoming.

Lillian Eichler Book of Etiquette, Volume II 1921

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Although Olivier was the official head of the household, the servants still deferred to either Phillip or Sophia on most matters. Jeffers, the head butler, approached Sophia after lunch.

"The modiste, Madame Clothilde has arrived, ma'am," he said in his soft head butler voice. "She and her assistants are in the process of transporting her equipment inside."

"Thank you, Jeffers," Sophia replied. "Have them seen to Catherine's room and tell her we will meet her there shortly."

Jeffers bent slightly from the waist. "Very good, ma'am."

Catherine took Vesya's hand. "Oh, this is going to be fun!" she exclaimed. "Madame Clothilde is going to design a lovely gown for you, just wait and see!"

Although no one seemed to have given it much of a second thought, Vesya was still rather mortified by her slip up at the table. She was rather glad of a change of scenery. "What do I need to do?" she asked.

"Oh, you just stand there while her assistants take all your measurements, and she makes a kind of sketch," Catherine explained. "And when she's done, she has the perfect dress!"

Miles stepped over to Sophia and spoke in a low voice. "I appreciate your arranging this for us. Please let me have the bill for Vesya's gown when it comes in."

Sophia waved her hand. "Oh, no, Colonel Miles. That's entirely out of the question. We wouldn't dream of it!" Before Miles could object, she turned to Catherine and Vesya. "Come along, ladies. Let's not keep Madame Clothilde waiting. Amue, Strongine, I believe she has brought your gowns for your final fitting."

The two sisters swelled with delighted anticipation and followed their mother upstairs. Miles watched them with a slightly annoyed look until Phillip came up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't give it another thought, my boy," he said.

Miles turned to him. "Your generosity is very kind, sir, but I really can't accept it. I'm fully prepared to—"

"Oh, tosh!" Phillip interjected. "We're happy to do it." He fixed Miles with a heartfelt look. "You must understand. My wife and I are so very grateful for the way you've looked after our daughter all these years."

Miles gave a short, slightly incredulous laugh. "General, I don't think your daughter has ever needed looking after by me. It's been more like the other way around."

"Oh, possibly, possibly. But after we first met you, somehow we both felt a little better about her being so far away. You're such a steadying influence, and she's never really outgrown her rebellious teenage phase." Phillip let out a wistful sigh. "We had both rather hoped…" He quickly waved his hand. "No matter! No matter!" He looked up at Miles, a grin somewhere underneath his wealth of beard. "Your wife is a lovely girl! A charming creature, I must say! So ingenuous and unspoiled!"

"Thank you, sir," Miles said with a smile. "And thank you again for your generosity." He was secretly relieved. If Madame Clothilde was someone the Armstrongs hired on a regular basis, she was probably way out of his budget, despite the increase in pay that had come with his promotion.

"Now, why don't you come with me to my study, Miles," Phillip went on, linking his arm through the younger man's and leading him toward the opposite staircase. "Tell me everything about your new command. It must be very satisfying! Why, I remember my first command as though it was yesterday! Alex!" he called to his son. "Come and join us!"

"Of course, Father!" Alex replied jovially.

As the men went upstairs, Olivier stood leaning against the doorway of the foyer, not having been included in either group. One of the reasons she didn't like coming here was that she always felt out of place, a cog that didn't quite mesh with the other gears. The only place that honestly felt like home to her was Briggs, and she would always return to it, even if she had to do so alone.

Still, she didn't really have anything else to do at the moment. She considered one set of stairs, then the other. Finally, she turned toward the one her sisters, her mother, and Vesya had taken. Just for a few minutes. Just out of curiosity.

She reached the door of Catherine's room and stood there for a moment, trying to decide whether it was a good idea to go in. Indecision was normally alien to her, but what was going on in that room was pretty alien to her as well. She could hear all sorts of odd noises coming from the other side of the door. Feminine voices of various pitch. The deep cooing of Amue and Strongine, her mother's calm, authoritative tone, Catherine's breathy wistfulness. She couldn't hear Vesya, but the girl tended to be quiet most of the time. Olivier smirked. Unless she was belching. Miles' little desert flower was far from perfect, but at least she was human.

The other voices in the room suddenly hushed and a new voice took over. It sounded as though someone was either reciting epic poetry in a strange sepulchral tone or they were possessed of an unclean spirit. Puzzled, she knocked on the door.

The door opened just a few inches and Catherine peeked out, holding her finger to her lips. "Shh!" she hissed urgently. She grabbed her eldest sister by the wrist and with a strength that only a few people knew she possessed she yanked Olivier through the door and quickly closed it.

There were a surprising number of people inside Catherine's bedroom, which, like the other bedrooms in the mansion, were fairly large. Besides all Olivier's immediate female relations, there was a small corps of young women in crisp white blouses and dark blue skirts. Two of them were at one end of the room, fussing with Amue's and Strongine's gowns while the sisters were trying them on. Catherine was wearing a dressing gown, and there was a fluffy pink chiffon thing draped across her bed.

In the center of the room, standing in her underwear with a look of deep apprehension, was Vesya. Two of the young women were wrapping measuring tapes around her and busily writing down figures. These two women worked with silent efficiency, but another figure, dressed in a sort of flowing dress that resembled purple seaweed, was slowly circling around Vesya, waving her arms and apparently ranting. It was no wonder the girl looked scared.

"…dusky dusky desert hues of warmth and light and bathed in the eternal sun of all seasons ripening the glowing melons firm ripe melons peaches peaches peaches juice dripping down spreading on the silky sand slender vines twining melons melons damask rich heavy light warm slender…"

Olivier stared in revulsion. "What the hell is going on—"

"Shh!" Catherine hissed again. "You mustn't interrupt, Ollie!" she whispered. "Madame Clothilde is in the middle of the creative process!"

It seemed more as though the woman was in the middle of the going off her rocker process. But when it got to the point where Olivier felt that poor Mrs. Miles seriously needed rescuing, the strange specter of Madame Clothilde suddenly stopped her histrionics and snatched up a large sketch pad. Her hair, which was dyed a not-quite-found-in-nature yellow and was pinned up in a sort of bouffant, suddenly produced a number of colored pencils, which the modiste plucked out and shoved back in as needed and with astonishing speed. Still apparently under the influence of genius, she frantically sketched something on her pad, switching colors faster than the observers around her could blink. Everyone in the room fell tensely silent as she worked. Finally, she drew in a loud gasp as though she had just broken through the surface of a deep pool, she flipped the sketch pad around.

Olivier gave a start. The picture was an elegantly stylized drawing of a darkly tanned woman wearing a long peach-colored dress, low off the shoulders, fitted in the bodice, and flowing to the floor. There was even a kind of pattern drawn into the representation of the fabric. The other women in the room all let out a collective sigh and applauded softly.

Vesya stared at the picture. "That's my dress?" she asked in amazement.

"Indeed, it is, my dear," Madame Clothilde replied in a completely normal, surprisingly pleasant voice. "I think the pale peach damask silk will admirably compliment your skin tone, which, I must say, is quite lovely. The bodice will accentuate your figure rather nicely, and the décolletage will be just daring enough, I think." She gave Vesya a conspiratorial smile. "In a word, my dear, if you've got it, flaunt it. You can get dressed now." She turned to her assistants with the measuring tapes with a brisk, businesslike manner. "Figures, ladies?"

One of the young women finished jotting something down in a notebook. "Done, Madame!" she replied.

"Well, then!" The modiste turned to Sophia. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Armstrong?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Sophia said. "Girls!" she announced suddenly.

Catherine suddenly leapt to the door and barred it with her body. Amue and Strongine hurried to both windows, blocking out much of the light.

"Olivier," Sophia continued, for the first time acknowledging her oldest daughter's presence. "It is a very happy chance that brought you in here, one which I have every intention of taking advantage of."

Sensing danger, Olivier's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"It is my express desire that you present yourself as the family's representative at this occasion properly attired."

"I will be!" Olivier snapped back. "I'll be in my dress uniform!"

Sophia raised an imperious eyebrow. "You most certainly will not! I insist that you wear a proper evening gown."

"Oh, what an outstanding idea!" Madame Clothilde gushed. "I've wanted to dress her for years!"

Olivier's hand went to her sword, which wasn't there. "You can put a dress on my dead, stiff body, because it's not gonna happen otherwise!"

Sophia drew herself up to her full height. "You may be the head of the family, Olivier. You may be a major general, but I am still your mother." She smiled a small triumphant smile. "I have the prior claim, I believe."

Amue tossed her curls in exasperation. "It's just this one time, Olivier!" she argued from her post at the window.

"Why do you have to make such a fuss about it?" Strongine chimed in with a disgruntled sniff. "Honestly!"

"Please, Ollie!" Catherine begged, clasping her hands but not budging from the door. "Just this once? For me? Pretty please?"

Olivier glared furiously at the female relations. She was outnumbered and unarmed. Even if she did have her sword, she couldn't very well chop her mother and sisters up into little pieces. The dressmaker, on the other hand…

Across the room, Vesya stepped out from behind the folding screen with her clothes back on. She looked anxious at being caught in the middle of a family quarrel. Olivier happened to catch her eye where, to her surprise, she saw a glimmer of sympathy. Vesya was, after all, the only person in this room who had ever been to Briggs, even though it wasn't for very long. It might even be possible that Vesya might be the only one of these wretched women who got her. Maybe this would be a good time to put her to the test.

"I'd like an objective opinion," Olivier announced. "What do you think, Mrs. Miles?"

Vesya gave a little start as everyone turned to her expectantly. She looked around at the other women, then back at Olivier. "Well…" she began tentatively.

"Reflect, my dear!" Sophia prompted her. "This sort of situation is probably quite alien to you in Ishval, but we are an old and noble family. Olivier has trouble bearing that in mind."

"Mother!" Olivier growled.

"Actually," Vesya said quietly. "I come from and old and noble family, too. My uncle was chieftain of Kanda, and he could trace his family back over a thousand years. He was also very strict about how his family should act. But when his sister, my mother, married against his wishes, he disowned her and never spoke to her again." This speech was met with a blank silence, and Vesya went on. "I just don't think something like this should cause a fight. My family is very important to me, and I'm sure Ol—I mean, General Armstrong feels the same way about her family. She just has her own way of showing it. I mean, if she didn't care about you, she wouldn't be here."

Olivier tried not to look too surprised, and she covered it up by giving her mother a rather smug look. "Exactly!" she said.

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Miles," Sophia remarked. "But I'm not questioning my daughter's affection. I'm more concerned about the impression she's going to make."

With a cautious glance at Olivier, Vesya replied, "I don't think she feels like she needs to wear a dress to impress anyone. Everyone knows she's a decorated officer, so that's what they'll expect to see."

Now Olivier couldn't quite hide her surprise. "Thank you, Vesya!"

Vesya almost jumped at hearing the general actually use her name, and she smiled. "Well, it's true, I think." She turned with an apologetic look to Sophia. "I'm sorry. I know that's probably not what you wanted to hear."

Sophia just gave a deep, resigned sigh. "Well, it can't be helped. I suppose it was too much to hope for."

"But I think you're so wonderfully kind to have this dress made for me!" Vesya added quickly. "I'm so grateful!"

Sophia smiled benignly. "It's entirely my pleasure. You will look an absolute darling in it, my dear."

Vesya picked up the sketch pad to admire the drawing again. "Miles said he wanted to see me in an evening gown. He's going to be so pleased!"

"I think you're going to be quite the handsomest couple at the ball!" Catherine pronounced.

Amue and Strongine echoed their sister's opinion, admiring the drawing over Vesya's shoulders.

"I quite concur," Sophia said. "My dear Mrs. Miles—may I call you Vesya?"

Vesya nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes! Of course!"

"Vesya," Sophia went on. "I must admit to developing quite a maternal affection for you."

"Oh, I feel like I have a brand new sister!" Catherine chimed in wistfully.

Vesya beamed with pleasure at them.

Sophia turned to the modiste. "It would appear that we are done for now, Madame Clothilde. Thank you once again for your time. It's always a treat to see you at work."

Madame Clothilde gracefully inclined her head. "Dear Mrs. Armstrong, it is I who should thank you for providing me with such delightful subjects to work with!" She indicated the other Armstrong daughters, then nodded to Vesya. "Quite an exquisite figure, my child, and such lovely skin tone! If you don't mind me tooting my own horn," she said with a little chuckle, "I'd say your husband will find you quite ravishing in my creation."

The modiste turned to her assistants and clapped her hands sharply. "Ladies, let's clean up here and get back to—"

"Wait a minute," Olivier said suddenly, and everyone stared at her. While the others were going into raptures over Vesya, she was visited by a strange, almost childish compunction that she couldn't shake out of her head. She had never particularly cared before, but now she felt as though she had been dismissed by her own family. Not just dismissed, but replaced. By the same woman who had stolen away with Miles. Olivier was damned if she was going to be outdone.

She looked narrowly at Madame Clothilde and her sketch pad, which she jerked her chin at. "Let's just say…you know…hypothetically…if you were going to throw a dress together for someone like me, what would it look like? I mean, just off the top of your head."

Madame Clothilde raised an eyebrow. "I couldn't possibly just tell you just, as you say, off the top of my head," she replied with professional hauteur. "I must enter into my zone of creation. I must see the subject before me without any distracting trappings." She waved at the simple blouse and trousers outfit that Olivier had on.

Olivier scowled. "You mean, in my skivvies."

The modiste shuddered. "Indeed."

The idea was a repulsive one, but the little stabbing urge would not give Olivier any peace. Besides, one thing she was not was a coward. "Fine!" she huffed finally. "But this is just theoretical."

Madame Clothilde gestured mutely toward the folding screen, and Olivier stalked around behind it. She quickly pulled off her blouse, her trousers, and her socks and shoes. She hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and reappeared. Much to her annoyance, she could feel her cheeks burning.

Madame Clothilde eyed her and her somewhat utilitarian underclothing with vaguely patronizing distaste, but she beckoned Olivier forward to the middle of the room.

"Stand up straight, dear," Sophia said.

Olivier realized that she had her arms wrapped around her and she was slouching. She lifted her chin defiantly and stood at attention. Two of the assistants darted forward and quickly lassoed her with measuring tapes. Out of the corner of her eye, Olivier watched Madame Clothilde stare at her for several moments in silence, taking long, deep breaths.

"Cold, cold, wintriness…" the modiste began in a kind of low chant. "Frosty bitter white ice suffused in crisp clarity of pale light…" She stretched her arms out and started circling around Olivier, whose first instinct was to never let an enemy get behind her. She started to turn, but she heard her mother hiss out a warning to stand still. Well, better get it over with. "Vast fields of glittering pallor azure upon whiteness rising majestic ranges steel cold walls forever encased within eons of permafrost tundra pale rolling drifts of snow flurries immeasurable pride fullness of noble rank upon rank of snow-capped elevations peaks peaking mountains thrusting…"

Olivier frowned. This was getting quite seriously creepy.

"…alabaster alps purity of vigilance massifs unalloyed by frigid northern time…"

Madame Clothilde stiffened suddenly and dove for her sketch pad, her pencils flying with frantic abandon. Everyone else in the room held their breath for fear of disturbing the flow of genius. Finally, with a deep, exhausted gasp, the modiste flipped the sketch pad around. There was a moment of silence, then the room interrupted into a cries of amazement and approval.

"Oh, Madame, it's exquisite!"

"Oh, Madame, you've quite outdone yourself!"

"Oh, Madame, you really are a genius!"

Olivier stared at the drawing. She could only assume that was supposed to be her. The slender figure in the picture was wearing a pale silver-grey sleeveless gown that clung from the bust down to the hips, where it flared out. The neckline had a soft, cowl-like drape to it, not too low in the front, but rather low in the back. She didn't want to admit it out loud, but she kind of liked it. No, actually, she liked it a lot. It also scared her a little. She hadn't shown that much flesh in public since…well…ever. Then again, if Vesya was going to flounce around with her boobs nearly popping out of her dress, she could sure as hell show off a little.

"Well, Ollie?" Catherine breathed anxiously. "What do you think?"

Olivier kept a disinterested look on her face. "Are you sure that'll be ready in time? This shindig is the day after tomorrow."

"Oh course," Madame Clothilde replied. "I have a veritable army of seamstresses at my salon. I will return tomorrow afternoon with both your gowns for a final fitting. If-" she added, arching an eyebrow, "you actually want the dress."

Olivier let out a breath of exasperation. "All right, fine!" she huffed. "I guess it won't matter for a few hours."

"No, indeed," Sophia agreed, obviously trying to contain her glee. "And I do appreciate your self-sacrifice, Olivier."

Olivier just nodded, not entirely happy with her mother's choice of the word sacrifice.

Chapter Text

A gentleman who has received an invitation through a friend is usually accompanied by the friend who presents him. Otherwise, when the butler announces him to the hostess, he bows, and says "Mrs. Norman asked you if I might come." And the hostess shakes hands and says "How do you do, I am very glad to see you."

Emily Post Etiquette 1922

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Olivier stared at herself in the mirror.

I can't wear this!

She was embarrassed enough to have to ask for help with the strange, form-fitting undergarments. She was assured they were the latest thing, made specifically for these new fashions. When she looked into the mirror, she barely recognized herself from the neck down. She turned to look at her back, which she felt was dangerously exposed. The fabric, which Madame Clothilde explained was cut on the bias—whatever the hell that meant—clung to her curves, accentuating her hips and backside. She was desperately glad that no one from Briggs was here to see this. The last thing she needed was for the men under her command to be staring at her ass. It wasn't their business to know that she even had one.

Well, at least there was some advantage to being forced to stand in one place for hours on end. She could keep a large potted palm at her back so no one could get behind her. She turned back around to scowl at her front aspect. A hint of cleavage peaked out over the drapey folds of the soft silvery fabric. Great. She would be stuck in one spot, trying to not expose her rear, and everyone would be staring at her chest. She let out a sigh. Somehow or other, she would make her parents pay for this.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

I can't wear this!

Vesya gazed with dismay at the low-cut bodice of her gown. "I'm just glad no one from home can see me like this!"

Miles buttoned the coat of his dress uniform and glanced over at his wife. She had said that several times already. He thought she looked incredible.

"I think you look incredible," he told her accurately. "Everybody at home would think you look incredible. You're going to make quite an impact on the Amestrians' perception of Ishvalans."

"That's very sweet of you, Miles." Vesya pressed her hand over her cleavage. "But I'm not sure that's good." She turned to Miles. "And I'm supposed to dance with a bunch of men I don't know! And you can be sure they won't be looking me in the eye."

"Well," Miles replied, going over to a dresser that stood against the wall of their room. "Why don't we give them something else to look at?" He opened a drawer and took out a small rectangular box covered in blue velvet. He took it over to the dressing table that Vesya was standing at and handed the box to her.

She looked up at him in surprise. "What's this?"

"Alex and I went into town yesterday while you were busy with your dress," Miles replied. He smiled with anticipation. "Open it up!"

Vesya lifted the lid off the box and let out a gasp. Coiled inside the box was a string of milky white pearls. "Oh, Miles!" she breathed. "Oh, Miles! These must have cost a fortune!"

Miles lifted the pearls from the box and put them around Vesya's throat, fastening the clasp in the back. "Not really," he replied. "I had money set aside for your dress, but thanks to the kindness of the Armstrongs, I was able to put it to another use."

Vesya's eyes began to sting as she gazed at the shimmering pearls and quickly blinked back her tears. "Miles, this is so…so…nice!" She turned and kissed him. "Thank you so much!"

Miles took a moment to admire how his gift looked against his wife's tawny skin. "Just tell yourself that all those men are staring at your pearls," he said with a grin. "Then you can tell them that they were a gift from your adoring husband."

Vesya grinned back. "Who is a fierce Ishvalan warrior!"

Miles laughed. "I like the sound of that." He presented his arm to her. "Shall we sally forth to the battlefield?"

They stepped out into the hallway just as Olivier had finally decided to venture out. Miles froze on the spot and stared at her.

"Shit!" he remarked involuntarily.

Olivier scowled back at him. "My sentiments exactly," she growled and stormed past them down the hall, wobbling slightly in her heels. Without looking back, she called out. "And quit staring at my ass, Miles!"

Miles gave a small, somewhat guilty start. "I wasn't!" he declared. He looked at Vesya. "I wasn't, honest!"

Vesya just smiled at him. "It's all right, Miles. It's not bad looking, after all."

The ballroom was at the center of the mansion on the second floor. The twin curving staircases led to it, and an usher was posted at the top of each stair. The entrance to the ballroom was wide, with a grand carved arch overhead. The room itself was enormous, like most things having to do with the Armstrong family. The servants had spent the past two days burnishing the hardwood floor to a satiny sheen, polishing it with paraffin to turn it into the perfect dance surface. Across from the entrance, along the opposite wall, was a short platform where the orchestra, its members dressed in white jackets, was tuning up. There was a festive anticipation in the air.

Phillip was in white tie and tails. He had contemplated wearing his dress uniform, but he discovered that his girth had expanded somewhat since the last time he tried it on. Well, well, no matter. Even so, he proudly sported some of his more illustrious medals, including the Order of the White Dragon, which hung from a green ribbon around his collar.

Sophia was resplendent in a deep royal blue gown. Despite have given birth to five robust children, she had managed to keep a decent figure, and thanks to Madame Clothilde's finesse, her gown showed her off most advantageously.

Amue and Strongine giggled with anticipation over their dance cards. Where other modistes had despaired and tried to put them in neutrals in order to make them blend into the walls, Madame Clothilde gloried in dressing the two young women. For this occasion, she put them in rich jewel tones, a shimmering teal for Amue, and sparkling burgundy for Strongine.

Catherine, dressed in her poofy pink gown, skipped up to Olivier as she entered the hall.

"Oh, Ollie! You look divine!" she gushed, giving her sister a hug.

"I don't feel divine," Olivier muttered. "I feel like hell, if you want to know the truth. I'd like to get my hands around the neck of whatever sick bastard thought this sort of thing up in the first place!"

Catherine just giggled. "Oh, you're so silly!" She turned to Miles and Vesya as they entered. "Oh, my!" she cried. "You really are going to be the handsomest couple here! Oh, Mother, didn't I say so?"

"You did indeed," Sophia replied. She turned a smile to the Ishvalans. "But of course you'll be formally announced later, when the guests begin to arrive, so you should head downstairs."

"When are all these hundreds of people supposed to show up, anyway?" Olivier asked. "It's nearly eight o'clock, isn't it?"

"Yes, dear," her mother replied. "But most of them won't arrive until after eight-thirty."

"Why the hell not?" Olivier demanded. "The invitation said eight!"

"Of course it did, Olivier," Sophia said patiently. "But anyone who is anyone in Central City won't arrive until it is considered 'fashionably late.' After all, what's the point of being announced if there's no one to hear the announcement?"

"So, what, is everybody going to wait around for everyone else to go in first?"

"No, Olivier, of course not. All the new money people—the ones who have made sudden fortunes in pickles or chinchillas or whatever—they'll arrive only slightly late. After that the more established people will start showing up."

Olivier figured there had to be some sort of perverted logic to that, but it went against all her military discipline. When you were told to report at a certain time, that's when you showed up. Being fashionably late in battle only got you killed.

"Fine. So where do you want me to stand?" Olivier asked, looking around.

"Just there, dear," Sophia said, pointing to a large potted palm, much to Olivier's relief. "I'll let you know when. And Catherine, you must stand beside her for the first hour and a half or so, at least until the buffet supper begins. Then you'll have the whole rest of the night free for dancing."

"Yes, Mother," the girl answered dutifully.

Olivier shared a sympathetic look with her sister. At least she wouldn't be the only one standing there like an idiot.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

The usher at the door stood up straight and filled his lungs with air. In a tone modulated to carry across the room, he called out, "Colonel and Mrs. Miles!"

Miles, with Vesya on his arm, entered the ballroom, which by now was beginning to fill up. Dozens of heads turned to view the newcomers, and dozens of eyebrows raised at the sight of two Ishvalans. A ripple of surprised whispers spread through the huge room.

"Get used to it, people," Miles murmured under his breath.

With a smile he escorted Vesya over to where Olivier and Catherine stood. Miles saluted, but Olivier shook her head.

"Don't worry about it tonight, Miles. I don't even feel like me."

"Well, ma'am, if you will permit the liberty," Miles said, extending his hand, "I think you look quite lovely."

Olivier shook his hand and managed a smile. "Thank you, Colonel." She turned to Vesya and shook her hand. "My feet are killing me."

"I'm so sorry!"

Olivier took a deep breath and gestured toward Catherine. "I would like to present my sister, Catherine," she intoned wearily.

Miles obligingly shook Catherine's hand and gave her a little bow. "How do you do, Catherine?"

Catherine gave a little giggle. "Quite well, thank you!"

"How long do you have to do this?" Vesya asked, shaking hands with Catherine and feeling a little silly doing it.

"Until I kill somebody," Olivier muttered.

"Ollie!" Catherine whispered as an elderly couple approached them. "Shh!"

The orchestra had just finished playing a foxtrot, and there was a light pattering of applause from the dancers out in the middle of the floor. Vesya consulted her dance card, which was actually a little book that hung from her wrist by a loop of ribbon. There was a little pencil tucked into a pocket of the binding. Miles had already written his name down for a few of the dances listed on the program, and he told her that there were often more dances played that weren't listed.

A waiter carrying a tray of tall, slender glasses stopped next to them, and Miles took two of the glasses, handing one to Vesya. "You've never had champagne before, have you?"

Vesya shook her head and took a sip from her glass. "Oh!" She took another sip. "Oh, that's good!"

Miles chuckled. "Take it easy, sweetheart. You haven't eaten anything for a while, and those bubbles could go straight to your head."

Alex stepped up to them and gave Vesya a courtly bow. "May I add my name to your dance card, Mrs. Miles?"

"Oh…yes, of course." Vesya handed her glass to Miles and slipped the ribbon from her wrist. She handed the little book to Alex, who took the pencil from its pocket. It would not have seemed possible for him to maneuver anything so tiny, but he dexterously jotted his name down for a waltz. He handed the book back to her with another bow.

"I look forward to our dance, Mrs. Miles!"

"Yes, I…me, too," Vesya replied, hoping she was doing all of this right.

Before she was able to slip her dance card back on her wrist, Iggy Armstrong-Zimmerman came bouncing up.

"Oh, I say! It would be absolutely ripping of you to let me jot myself down for a spin, Mrs. Mails!"

"It's Miles," Miles reminded him politely.

Iggy looked blank for a moment, his red hair quivering over his forehead. "Oh, is it? I say! Awfully sorry!" He chuckled self-deprecatingly and rolled his eyes. "Got a brain like a sieve, I'm afraid! Oh, I say!" His pale blue eyes widened. "If I think of you both as Miles and Miles, I'll remember! You know, as in miles and miles to go, that sort of thing!"

"That's…very clever, Ignatz."

"Anyway," Iggy went on, turning to Vesya. "Do be a chum and squeeze me in for the next foxtrot!"

Vesya was not quite as comfortable with the idea of dancing with Iggy as she was with Alex, but she didn't want to offend anyone. She wrote Iggy's name down. "There," she said, smiling at him.

Iggy grinned cheerfully. "Oh, thanks awfully! See you at the next trot!" he declared, and he strolled away, his hair bouncing.

Miles started snickering and Vesya gave his arm a nudge. "Don't, Miles. You'll get me started, then I won't be able to stop."

"Here." Miles handed her back her glass of champagne. "This should make dancing with Iggy a little less painful."

The usher at the door straightened up and announced, "Brigadier General and Mrs. Mustang!"

As they headed toward the reception line, Roy leaned a little toward Riza. "Please tell me you're seeing what I'm seeing."

Riza nodded in amazement. "Uh-huh!"

Olivier let out a quiet groan as they approached. "Oh, God! Look what the cat dragged in!"

Roy gave her a bow. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Miss…" he said, lifting an eyebrow at her cheekily.

"Oh, stuff it, Mustang!" Olivier hissed.

"Ollie!" Catherine whispered, mortified. "Please!"

Olivier glowered at Roy as he grinned, then she turned to Riza. "You aren't beating him enough."

Riza just smiled. "You look wonderful, General Armstrong," she said sedately.

"Thanks," Olivier mumbled. "I present my sister Catherine, blah, blah, blah, go away and mingle or something."

"Lovely party!" Roy said as he took Riza's arm and headed away.

Olivier glared after him and Catherine had to nudge her to attend to the next guests.

Once they had each been served a glass of champagne, Roy and Riza made a circuit of the room, greeting people they knew, which weren't many. After a few minutes, Riza tapped Roy's arm.

"There's Miles!" she said, steering her husband toward the Ishvalan officer.

Seeing them approach, Miles saluted. "Brigadier!"

Roy returned his salute. "Colonel! It's good to see you again!" he said, putting every ounce of sincerity into his voice. They had had a few tense moments around the end of the previous year, and he was anxious to put that all behind them. "I'm hearing some very good things out of Ishval!"

"Thank you, sir," Miles replied graciously. "As well you should. There's been a major surge of building during these past few months. We may not quite beat the rainy season, but we should have a roof over our heads before long."

"That's good to hear! And how is his honor, the provincial governor?" Roy asked.

"He's very well," Miles replied. "He's taking on a little too much and he fusses over it all like a mother hen. By the way, he and Rada are expecting twins in the fall."

"Twins? Seriously?"

"He seems to be a wonderful father," Riza said. "How is his little girl, Danika?"

"Thriving," Miles told her. "She asked about you both. You made quite an impression on her."

"And how about your troops?" Roy asked. "How are the new ones adjusting to the heat?"

Miles gave a little shrug. "Just when they think it can't get any hotter, it does. We'll be getting our first cases of fever soon, but the men are almost looking forward to it."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding."

Miles shook his head. "They figure they'll really belong once they've gotten over it. They're being particularly courteous to the Ishvalans in hopes that they'll be taken pity on and will get some pretty girl to nurse them through it." Miles grinned as Vesya rejoined him. "Like I did."

Roy smiled warmly at the young Ishvalan woman. "Hello, Mrs. Miles. If I may…" He leaned closer to her and kissed her on the cheek. "You look amazing!"

Vesya blushed and dimpled at him. "Thank you, Brigadier!"

Miles arched an eyebrow. Two could play at that game. "Mrs. Mustang, has anyone asked you for the mazurka?"

Riza shook her head. "We only just got here, Colonel, but I'd love to put you down for it."

Roy smirked. "I can't believe you even know how to dance that."

Riza took her dance card from her wrist and wrote Miles' name down. "I went to a fancy girls' school. I learned stuff like that."

"And how about you, Colonel?" Roy asked. "Did you learn to dance at a fancy girls' school?"

"Uh…no, actually. One of the first times I came here, Mrs. Armstrong taught me," Miles replied. "She thought I should know these things."

"I see." Roy gestured toward Vesya's dance card. "May I?"

"Of course!" Vesya handed the little book to Roy, who made a show of perusing the dance program.

"Hmm…How about a polka?" he said, writing his name down and handing it back to Vesya. He gave Miles a slightly mischievous look as if to say, two to one, my favor.

With a hint of a smile, Miles took up the challenge with a look of his own, intimating that the night wasn't over yet.

The orchestra started up with the strains of a waltz. "That's us, Ves," Miles said, taking his wife's hand and leading her out onto the floor.

Riza watched them with a little smile as they walked away. "They certainly are pretty together."

Roy took her hand and led her toward the dance floor. "So are we."

From where Olivier stood, she watched the dancers twirl to the waltz. There were her parents, her father masterfully leading his wife around the floor. There was Mustang and Hawkeye (she really couldn't think of her by any other name), rather more evenly matched in height. There was Alex doing his usual duty as Amue's dance partner. Then there was Miles and Vesya, moving in graceful circles. Even the other couples on the floor took notice of them. Being Ishvalan, there was something exotic about them. They were both attractive. But there was something more. Olivier gave a quiet sigh. They just seemed to fit together.

"The Honorable Member of Parliament for Ishval, Mr. Shua!"

Olivier gave a jolting start and spun toward the door. "What?" she cried out loud.

"Oh, how lovely!" Catherine gushed, giving a little clap. "I'm so glad he could come!"

Olivier glared at a tall, lanky Ishvalan with a mane of slightly unkempt silver hair standing in the doorway. He was dressed in an outfit similar to the native formal wear the she had seen when she was in Ishval for Miles' and Scar's weddings. He wore a black coat that reached down to his knees. Underneath the coat he wore a white tunic with black and red embroidery at the neck opening, as well as loose black trousers tucked into black leather boots. Around his waist was a wide belt of tooled leather. Olivier glowered as she wondered if he was hiding his twin daggers at the back of that belt.

He seemed so utterly out of place and yet he looked completely at ease. Olivier felt a knot of dread in her stomach as he caught sight of her. His eyebrows rose dramatically and he sauntered over to her with a grin on his face.

"Well, well, well," he nearly purred. "I've been around the block a few times, but I've never seen such a sight as this!" He bowed in front of Olivier, and when he straightened up, he unashamedly ran his eyes up and down her body. "You look good enough to eat!"

Olivier stiffened with all the arctic chill of Briggs. "Who the hell invited you?" she hissed.

Shua looked genuinely surprised. "You did! That's what it said on the invitation." His wolfish grin returned. "I figured you couldn't wait to see me again."

"I didn't even know you were coming!"

"That's because you didn't want to see the guest list," Catherine reminded her primly. She turned to the Ishvalan MP with a beaming smile. "It's lovely to see you again, Mr. Shua!"

"Oh, drop the mister, laleh!" Shua replied, leaning down to kiss the girl on the cheek. "You look like a cupcake I saw in a bakery window the other day."

Catherine giggled. "I can start dancing a little later. Will you dance with me?"

Shua gave her a look of mock surprise. "Aren't you the cheeky miss? I'd love to!" He gave Olivier one more once over and a wink. "Catch you later, General."

Olivier seethed helplessly as she watched him stride away.

"I don't believe this!" she moaned quietly.

"Why not?" Catherine asked. "We met him while we were in Xing, and he's become quite a friend of the family."

"Oh, that's just great!" Olivier muttered through her teeth.

Chapter Text

To dance divinely is an immortal gift, but to dance well can (except in obstinate cases, as the advertisements say) be taught. Let us suppose therefore, that she dances well, that she has a certain degree of looks, that she is fairly intelligent. The next most important thing, after dancing well, is to be unafraid, and to look as though she were having a good time.

Emily Post Etiquette 1922

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"Well, look at you ladies!" After making a circuit of the ballroom, Shua made his way over to put an arm around both Riza's and Vesya's waists. "This is why I love these fancy dos!" he said to their husbands. "You get to see all sorts of things that you normally wouldn't."

"I'll say," Roy let his eyes travel rather obviously across Vesya's décolletage. "Those are lovely pearls."

Miles' only reaction was the merest flicker of an eyebrow. He could have let his gaze stray to Riza's cleavage, but that would be cheap. Instead, he reached out and gently ran a finger along the edge of her ear and behind her earlobe. "Forgive me, but is that real Drachman amber?" he asked, admiring her earring.

Riza cleared her throat and drew in a deep breath as her goosebumps went down. "Yes, it is. They were a wedding present," she added with a smile at Roy.

Roy kept a charming grin on his face. "Well, now that we've established what lovely taste we all have," he declared, "shall we go in to supper?"

"With respect, sir," Miles said, "aren't you due to dance with Strongine?"

Roy kept the smile going. "Yes, of course I am," he replied between his teeth. "I seem to recall that you are partnering Amue, as well, unless I'm much mistaken."

"I was just about to collect her."

"Of course." Roy figured he was still one ahead, although he had to admit, the ear thing was pretty daring for a lower ranking officer. He might have to concede an extra point to Miles for sheer balls.

Roy turned to scan the ballroom. It wasn't like Strongine was hard to spot. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Then he leaned back slightly to say to Riza, "If I don't make it back, give Breda my chess set."

"Understood, Brigadier," Riza replied, giving him a shove forward.

Roy regained his balance and strode around the edge of the dance floor to where Strongine was standing, gazing morosely at the other dancers. When she saw Roy approaching, she quickly brightened up, her hand going to her hair to give it a quick pat down, then she put on a coy, disinterested look.

"General Mustang," she said in a soft contralto. "How pleasant to see you!"

Roy gave a slight bow, then had to lean back slightly to look her in the face. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Strongine. I believe we have the next dance."

Strongine gave him a girlish leer. Roy swallowed. That girl had big teeth. "So we do!" She linked a beefy arm through his and hauled him out onto the floor.

Miles crossed the floor to locate Amue. She stood patiently waiting for him, lazily fanning herself with a lace fan. On seeing Miles approach, she snapped it shut. "Colonel Miles! Punctual as always."

Miles gave a little bow from the waist. "Miss Amue."

She held out a large hand encased in a burgundy-colored glove. "This is very kind of you, Colonel," she said. There was just the tiniest hint of sadness in her voice. "I know Olivier basically ordered you."

"She most certainly did not, Miss Amue," Miles replied. He smiled at her and, taking her hand, led her out onto the floor. "Let's show them how it's done."

Vesya consulted her dance card. "I'm supposed to dance with Alex Armstrong." She looked around. "I guess I should go find him."

"Oh, don't do that, laleh," Shua corrected her. "He's supposed to come and get you. At least, that's what I've been told. See?" He pointed across the floor. "Here he comes, right on cue."

Alex stepped up to Vesya and bowed. "I believe this is our waltz, Mrs. Miles," he rumbled courteously.

"Yes, it is." Vesya watched her hand disappear into Alex's massive paw and he lead her out to the dance floor.

Shua and Riza were left by themselves as the strains of the waltz began. "What do you say?" Shua nodded toward the dance floor.

"You know how to waltz?" Riza asked him in surprise.

"Of course I do!" Shua scoffed, taking her hand. "I didn't just come in on the last caravan, you know."

The floor was crowded with dancers, all moving in a single flow of traffic around the ballroom. Miles and Amue floated along majestically, but in her eagerness, Strongine spun Roy like a rag doll, his feet barely touching the floor. Alex, very light on his feet despite his size, led Vesya with courtly grace. Shua, much to Riza's surprise, was a very good dancer.

"Did you take lessons?" she asked him.

"My neighbor taught me," Shua told her as they reversed. "Nice lady."

"Oh?" Riza remarked with a little smirk. "She must like you rather a lot to teach you how to dance."

"I think she just feels sorry for me," Shua said. "She sort of adopted me when I moved into the apartment building. She's always feeding me. She makes the most amazing apple pie."

"Goodness! When a woman starts making you pie, it could be serious."

Shua shook his head. "No, she's not interested in me, I could tell that right off. Her apartment is full of pictures of her late husband. I think she's always going to be a one-man woman."

Olivier prowled around the outskirts of the ballroom. The majority of the guests had already passed through the arched doorway some time ago, their lateness firmly in vogue. Anyone showing up at this point was just plain late. Her hand felt swollen from all the handshaking she'd done (did she really shake over five hundred hands?) and her feet were killing her (the next Drachman spy she got hold of was getting a pair of these stinking shoes!)

Supper was being served now, and she was starving. She made her way into the next room where the buffet was set up and she grabbed a plate and had it piled high. On her way to a table, she grabbed a bottle of champagne out of the hands of a startled waiter. As she turned around, she nearly ran into her mother.

Sophia raised an eyebrow at her. "Feeling a little peckish, are we?"

Olivier's jaw clenched. "Mother, don't."

"There are still guests arriving, you know."

"Screw them. I don't care." Olivier swung her champagne bottle toward where Catherine was sitting, giggling with a group of her friends. "She's already called it quits. I figure I've done my duty."

Sophia sighed. "Very well," she said. "But don't forget, you must make yourself available for your guests to thank you for a lovely evening when they leave."

"Fine," Olivier replied, going to an empty table and setting her plate down. "I'll be here."

"Oh, no, dear! That won't do at all," Sophia said quickly. "You can't sit in the dining room until three in the morning."

Olivier had taken a swig from the champagne bottle, then nearly choked on it. She swallowed hard. "Three in the morning?" she cried incredulously. "Don't you people have lives?"

"Use a glass, dear," Sophia said, setting a water glass in front of her. Quite the wrong thing, but it would have to do. "If the same number of people are here by midnight and if they don't start slipping off to other parties, then we count the evening as an unqualified success." She smiled with satisfaction. "So far, so good." As she moved away, she added, "Mind you don't drop food on your dress, dear."

Olivier glumly dropped into the chair and began to eat. After a while, her hunger sated, she sipped from her glass and brooded. Why exactly were these people having such a good time? She supposed she understood all the society people. This was apparently what they did all the time. There were still people living in slums who weren't always sure where their next meal would come from, and these fat cats were here getting fatter. She didn't get the dancing thing, either. She had learned to shoot and fence and fight by her late teens, but forget dancing.

Through the doors, she watched the dancers twirl and sway. She snickered at the sight of Mustang in Strongine's arms. There was Miles, keeping pace with Amue. Alex was dancing with Vesya, who seemed to be sucking all this up pretty handily. She was certainly having a good time. To her surprise, she caught a glimpse of Hawkeye in Shua's arms. Who knew? Well, she had scrapped with him back in Ishval, so she knew he was pretty light on his feet. Olivier propped her chin on her hand with a scowl. She conjured up a picture of herself driving a tank through the ballroom. Now that would be an unqualified success. She allowed herself a brief smile at the thought, but then she lapsed back into a brooding melancholy. The sooner she could get back to Briggs, the less life would suck.

The waltz came to an end, and the dancers moved off the floor. Strongine tittered and wiggled her fingers at Roy as he went to find Riza.

"Well, I hope Miles had as much fun as I did," Roy grumbled when he joined her where she was waiting after Shua wandered off.

Riza nodded toward the Ishvalan colonel as he approached. "There he is."

"You've got Strongine next," Roy told him. "She's got quite a grip. And big teeth."

"My dance with Strongine isn't for a while yet," Miles said. He turned to Riza. "I believe our dance is actually next."

Riza smiled at him. "I believe it is." She handed her champagne glass to Roy. "Back in a bit."

The dance floor was clearing except for a small number of couples. The mazurka was too old-fashioned for some, and too complicated for others. It was almost more of an exhibition dance, but there were some people who had mastered it, Phillip and Sophia among them, as well as Miles and Riza. Everyone else either went into the dining room or stood back to watch the dancing.

The orchestra began its introduction, a grand triple meter rhythm with a martial air. It wasn't like a waltz, where you could just get away with swaying back and forth. It was the sort of dance that, if not done well, should not be attempted at all. The women looked graceful, the men looked stately, and it was fascinating to watch the dancers go through the different patterns.

Vesya stood next to Roy as they watched their spouses dance. "Have they done this together before?" she asked.

Roy shook his head. "I know it looks like that," he said. "They're just good at it." He gave a quiet sigh. Miles sure looked good out there, and he led Riza with gentlemanly authority. Roy had to award him extra points for this one. He turned his gaze from the dance floor to smile at the woman next to him. "How are you doing, Vesya?" he asked, dropping the ballroom courtesies. "I bet you're a lot happier being back home."

Vesya smiled at him. "Oh, Brigadier, it's wonderful! It may be rough, our house isn't finished yet, there's still so much work to be done, but I'm so happy to be there. I'm sure Miles does, but I don't miss Briggs at all."

"I get the impression that Miles is creating his own Briggs."

Vesya nodded with a proud smile. "He is very dedicated. The time he spent with General Armstrong taught him a lot. He works his men hard, but they're eager to gain his respect. He's certainly won theirs."

Roy nodded approvingly. "I'm glad to hear that." He smiled a little ruefully. "I know we've been fooling around a little this evening, but I really do have nothing but respect for your husband. I wanted him to take command of Ishval from the very beginning, but I wasn't sure he'd ever want to leave the north."

"He wasn't sure he would be offered the command," Vesya replied. "But he was more that ready to do whatever he could to help our people." She turned to Roy. "He may not say it outright, but he really is grateful for everything you've done for Ishval."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure he wouldn't mind you telling me that?"

Vesya regarded him solemnly. "Even if he does, I think you ought to know."

"Well, then, I promise I won't let on." Roy smiled, counting that as one up to him.

The mazurka ended and the dancers left the floor to the applause from the spectators. Miles escorted Riza to where their respective spouses were waiting for them.

"Thank you, Colonel," Riza said. "That's not something I get to do very often."

"I'm sure the brigadier could pick it up in no time," Miles replied.

It occurred to Roy that someone with an unsavory imagination could read something really inappropriate into that. Not him, of course.

The orchestra leader moved over to a microphone that stood at one edge of the stage. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he began. "The musicians are going to take a short intermission, but we'll be back soon for your dancing enjoyment. Thank you!"

"We'd better get to the dining room before it fills up," Roy suggested, tucking Riza's hand into the crook of his elbow.

The two couples headed into the dining room along with a number of the other guests. Once they had their plates, they looked around for a table that would accommodate the four of them.

"Oh, there's one!" Roy said brightly.

Miles frowned slightly. "I'm not sure, sir. I wouldn't want to presume—"

"Oh, come on! She looks lonely," Roy replied, striding across the room.

He approached the table where Olivier sat and she glared up at him. "What do you want?" she muttered.

"Just the pleasure of your company, General," Roy said with a charming smile.

"Unless it's an imposition, ma'am," Miles added quickly as he came up.

Olivier sat back and shrugged indifferently. "No, it's fine. I was nearly done anyway."

Roy lifted an eyebrow at the half-empty bottle of champagne as he pulled a seat out for Riza. He waved at a passing waiter, who promptly brought over a set of tall, slender glasses that he was carrying toward the buffet table.

"You shouldn't drink alone, General," Roy remarked, filling the glasses for the others. "It's not good for you."

"That's the only time I do drink, Mustang," Olivier replied. "I'm not exactly a gregarious person."

"Well, I am," Roy said cheerfully. "Especially amid such good company!"

Olivier just gave her eyes a slight roll.

"I understand you'll be assisting with the release of Ishval's hidden river, Brigadier," Miles said.

Roy nodded. "That's right. The geological survey is just about wrapped up. I'll probably be heading out to Ishval in a couple of months."

"I can hardly wait!" Vesya breathed. "I can't even imagine what it's going to be like having a real river all year round!" She sighed. "I remember one year when the well near our house dried up and it took forever to find another spot that had water. My mother cried."

"The river will bring silt down from the mountains as well," Miles said. "Andakar told me that Ishval was once a fertile valley. The river normally overflowed every year and spread the silt past the banks. The ancient Ishvalans could grow damn near anything."

"Speaking of fertile," Roy said, "Are we expecting a population boom in Ishval?"

Vesya chimed in with a heartfelt sigh. "Oh I hope so! I want children so badly! Rada got pregnant right away!" She giggled with subdued excitement. "I want to beat Naisha, so we've been working at it really hard!"

Miles had to spit his champagne back into his glass and Vesya quickly colored and put her fingers to her mouth. "Sorry!" she whispered quickly. "I meant—"

Miles wiped his face with his napkin and shook his head. "That's all right, sweetheart." He put his arm around her and kissed her temple. "I know that's your favorite subject these days."

Roy grinned. "Well, my money's on you two."

Vesya dimpled at him. "And what about you?" she asked. "Are you and Riza going to start a family soon?"

"Uh…to be honest, we haven't really thought about it yet," Roy admitted.

"It was enough of a jump into the unknown just to get married," Riza added.

Vesya gave a little understanding nod. "I suppose it was. But I think you'd have lovely children!"

Roy raised his glass. "Here's to fertility and handsome babies!" He tapped Olivier's glass with a crystalline ring. "What do you say, General?"

Olivier glowered at him sullenly and made no reply, sincerely hoping to be firmly ensconced up north before the east was up to its ankles in placenta. She also fervently wished to get away from all these cheerful, affectionate couples, but she couldn't quite stop an almost masochistic urge to keep glancing at Miles. At the moment, he and his wife had their heads close together, and she was giggling lightly at something he was whispering into her ear. Olivier gave a sigh and looked away to the doors to the ballroom, only to see with sinking despair that Shua was headed toward their table.

He was accompanied by the leader of the orchestra, a fortyish man with slicked back hair and a wide smile. "I'd like you all to meet a friend of mine," Shua announced as he brought the man up to the table. "This is Danny Marx, who is almost as good a musician as I am."

Danny gave the table a little bow. "Good evening, folks! I hope you're all having a splendid time!"

Olivier just gave him a nod, thinking that her mother should have hired him to play host. He seemed to like it.

"Danny and some of his boys from the orchestra have another band, and we often get together on the weekends at a little tavern in town and have a jam session," Shua went on.

Danny pointed to the lanky Ishvalan. "Shua here taught me and my boys an Ishvalan song and I've been trying to convince him to sing it tonight."

"You need convincing?" Miles asked Shua with a wry look.

Shua gave a modest shrug that didn't fool anybody. He turned to Olivier. "As long as General Armstrong doesn't mind. She is the evening's host, after all."

Olivier shrugged disinterestedly, just wishing he'd go away. "Knock yourselves out."

Danny nudged Shua with his elbow. "That settles it! Come on!"

They headed back out into the ballroom and climbed the steps to the stage. Danny disappeared into the wings for a moment, then reemerged with an accordion strapped to his shoulders. To the surprised murmurs of the crowd, he said into the microphone, "My mother told me not to quit my day job." He let the soft rumble of laughter die down and went on. "We thought we'd treat you all to a little something extra." He gestured to Shua, who stood waiting at the corner of the stage. "Mr. Shua, MP, is going to join us for a special number."

The crowd applauded politely as Shua stepped up to the microphone. "This is a sad song from my old neighborhood about a young man forced to part from his loved one."

He gave Danny a nod, and the orchestra leader and a select number of the musicians started up a tune with the exotic lilt of Ishvalan music but played on Amestrian instruments. It started out sounding pretty bouncy and not particularly sad, but as Shua leaned in toward the microphone the music slowed and took on a somewhat more melancholy tone. He sang soulfully in a light baritone, conveying the sorrow of parting. He was pretty convincing, with his look of bittersweet pathos, and Olivier wondered if this was the sort of act he put on when trying to get a bill passed through Parliament. Kind of a cheap trick, as far as Olivier was concerned.

The song came to an end, and Shua's features brightened into a gleaming smile against his tawny complexion. His audience burst into applause and he gave a modest bow of his head. Olivier wasn't fooled for a minute.

Danny set aside his accordion and took up his baton once again to continue with the dance program. As the orchestra began the strains of a foxtrot, Catherine came into the ballroom and walked up to Vesya.

"I thought you ought to know that Iggy was on his way to find you for this dance, but he ran straight into a column and knocked himself silly." She gave a little shrug and added, "Sillier. Anyway, he's in no state to dance."

"Oh, well, that's all right," Vesya replied, trying not to show how relieved she was. "I hope he's not hurt badly."

Catherine waved a hand. "He'll be fine. He does this sort of thing all the time. It wouldn't be a party if Iggy didn't run into something."

"Since you're free," Miles said, standing up and holding his hand out to Vesya, "I'll stand in for Iggy."

Vesya rose from her seat with a smile. "I'd love to, Miles!"

Miles gave a slight bow toward Olivier. "If you'll excuse us," he said, and the two left for the dance floor.

Riza and Roy followed suit, leaving Olivier at the table, rather to her relief. Catherine turned to her sister. "You haven't danced at all, have you, Ollie?"

Olivier gave her an incredulous scowl, and Catherine shrugged and sighed as she walked away. "Oh, well. You're missing out on all the fun!"

Olivier doubted that rather a lot. She stabbed at an olive with a little plastic cocktail saber and chewed on it grumpily. A waiter stepped up to her timidly. "May I clear the table, Miss Armstrong?"

She pushed her chair back and stood up. "Go ahead."

She walked back out into the ballroom and took up a position by the wall near a tall plant. As the dancers moved around the floor, she found herself unable to take her eyes off Miles as he moved gracefully with his wife in his arms. The two gazed raptly at each other as though there wasn't another person in the entire room, including herself.

To her horror, Olivier felt her eyes begin to mist over and her throat tighten. She turned quickly and strode back through the dining room and out onto a balcony, where she stood with her hands pressed against the railing. It must have been the champagne. It must have been the stifling atmosphere inside. She took several gulps of fresh air, but the feeling still oppressed her. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the tears back into their ducts. It had to be the shoes. She angrily kicked them off and hurled them, one after the other, off the edge of the balcony.

"Oh, Mother won't be pleased!"

Olivier spun around. Perched on the railing where it connected to the wall was Shua. "What the hell are you doing out here?" she growled fiercely.

Shua gave an innocent shrug. "I'm just out for a breath of fresh air. I'd say just like you, except I think you've got other reasons," he added.

"Hm!" Olivier turned away to glare out into the darkened garden below. "You're right about that!"

"I figured." Shua chuckled quietly. "You might not know this, but I've been keeping an eye on you ever since I got here, which, believe me, has been a pleasant task. I couldn't help but notice that you're not being your normal smiling self, and I think there's a little more to it than your dancing shoes pinching your toes." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe you're a little chilly in that outfit."

"Hardly, but I'll admit I'm not happy about having to wear this getup."

"You're not?" Shua exclaimed, surprised. "God damn me, woman! You make it look so good!"

"So what?" Olivier threw her hands up. "I still don't have to like it!"

Shua thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose you've got a point." He grinned. "But just think of how happy you've made everyone who gets to look at you!"

Olivier sincerely hoped the light from the ballroom was bright enough for Shua to receive the full effect of the seething glare she was giving him. "I'm doing this for my sister and to get my parents off my back! I don't give a rat's ass what anyone else thinks!"

"Not anyone?" Shua asked in reply, apparently not fazed by seething glares. Maybe the light wasn't strong enough. There was enough of it to glint off his teeth as he grinned. "Not a single one?"

Olivier gave a snort and turned away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play thick with me, love. You know exactly what- -sorry, make that who I'm talking about." He hopped down from the railing and strolled up beside her. "You used to have him all to yourself. You thought you knew him inside and out, and you thought he'd be by your side forever. And then that little dusky maiden stole him away. And you know what?" Shua leaned his arms against the railing and gazed out over the darkened garden. "He's never looked happier."

Olivier was glad she had turned away from the light because she could feel the blood draining from her face. A moment later it rushed back up, making her face burn.

"That's quite a colorful imagination you have," she muttered.

"I don't have to imagine anything," Shua replied easily. "Anybody who cared to take the time to notice-and believe me, I care to-could read you like a book." He paused for a moment and changed to a gentler tone. "I'm not trying to be mean, sweetheart, honest. It must hurt like hell. I know what it's like to lose someone you thought the world of. But sometimes you just have to let them go. I lost Dejan's mother years ago."

"Did you talk her to death?" Olivier snapped back.

Shua's smile disappeared, and even in the dim light Olivier could see his features harden. She had never seen him like that. "No. She died because she was sick and because I was too damn poor to afford one of your fancy Amestrian doctors who probably would've turned his nose up at me anyway!"

Olivier felt her face burn again and she blew out a deep breath. "Sorry!" she muttered. "I'm sorry! That was—" She frowned angrily, and with an effort she said, "I'm not a kind person at the best of times."

After a moment, Shua's face relaxed back into a smile and he shrugged. "Ah, well," he said with a sigh. "I couldn't stay mad at you for long, anyway."

She turned on him. "Why the hell not?" she demanded furiously. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Shua looked genuinely surprised but not particularly concerned by the question. He shrugged. "Not a damn thing."

She stared at him for several moments. She couldn't figure him out. She had a number of mental classifications for people, but he didn't adhere to any of them. He was more than just a consummate showoff. His relaxed, casual demeanor belied the speed and resourcefulness of a dirty street fighter. He could fit in anywhere, in any company, rich or poor, with the confident ease of a chameleon. His swaggering arrogance drove her crazy and made her dearly want to hit him in the face, except that he would probably be able to block her punch and be maddeningly smug about it. The only way she seemed to be able to get a rise out of him was if she said something cruel, but not only was that dishonorable, she realized that she didn't want to do that again. There had to be a better way to shake him up.

She grabbed his head between her hands and pulled his face down to hers, crushing her mouth hard against his. To her satisfaction, he stiffened with shock. But then he slid his arms around her and pulled her close against him, wresting control from her and tempering the angry pressure of her lips to something slower and softer. It made her even angrier. It also made her not want him to stop. She moved her hands from his head to his back and dug in her fingers. After a time, he pulled back just enough to whisper something in Ishvalan, his lips brushing against hers. Then he drew away from her, slipping out of her arms.

She gazed up into his face, which was illuminated just enough by the moonlight and by the glow from inside the house. "What did you say?" she whispered, her throat feeling dry.

He smiled, a little wryly. "I said, that was nice, but next time you do that, make sure I'm the only man on your mind." He gave her a hint of a wink. "Good night, Miss Armstrong. I've had a lovely evening." Then he turned and went back inside.

Olivier stood motionless for several minutes. She didn't watch him go. She felt ashamed and bitter, but strangely elated, and she didn't like the combination. Finally, she forced herself to go back into the dining room, heedless of the fact that her feet were only covered with stockings. She didn't realize her mother was in front of her until Sophia grabbed her by the shoulders to keep from plowing into her.

"Olivier!" she said in a low voice, peering intently into her daughter's face. "What's wrong? You look ghastly!"

Olivier focused on her mother's features. "I…feel pretty ghastly, actually." She closed her eyes wearily. "Mother, I can't do this anymore. Can I please just go to bed?"

Sophia regarded her with concern for a moment, then she nodded. "Yes, of course, my dear. I'll make your apologies."

Olivier nodded and started moving away, but her mother turned her around and herded her toward the far end of the dining room. "Go out through the other door, dear. You don't want to go across the ballroom."

"Oh. Yeah." Olivier scowled slightly. "I sure don't."

As she headed away, Sophia glanced down at her feet. "Olivier! Where are your shoes?"

Olivier smirked. "Out in the garden somewhere."

Chapter Text

A possible reason why bachelors seem to make such good hosts is that only those who have a talent for it make the attempt. There is never any obligation on a gentleman's part to invite ladies to stay with him, whereas it is part of every lady's duty at least occasionally to be a hostess, whether she has talent, or even inclination, for the position or not.

Emily Post Etiquette 1922

It was the end of August, but she was shivering. Her uniform was wet and heavy, but she couldn't quite bring herself to get out of the rain. She had trudged around the same city block about four times already, every joint in her body aching, her head throbbing, and her eyes twinging with a sharp pain whenever she moved them. She was glad that there were so few people on the street to notice her.

It had been simple enough to find an excuse to leave Briggs again so soon. Her father had some legal papers she needed to sign. He offered to mail them to her, but she said she'd come down. It took all of half an hour, and rather than stay for dinner at home, she said she needed to do a few things in the city. Then she would take the overnight sleeper back to Briggs. By the time she left the house, she had already come down with whatever this was. She probably caught it from that kid who threw up just as they were pulling out of North City. The only thing that was worse than a kid on a train was a barfing kid on a train.

She stood in front of the tall apartment building. She knew it was the right address. She had surreptitiously checked it on the guest list that her mother still had. She glared at the front steps as they mutely challenged her to stop being such a coward. She angrily shook her head, which hurt, and she stomped up the steps, which also hurt. If she didn't get this over with, she'd never get him out of her head.

She rode the elevator up to the third floor and stepped out into the corridor, which was thankfully deserted. She strode along the row of numbered doors until she got to the right one. She stood there for a few moments, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say.

Don't you dare get the wrong idea about me…

I just want to get this settled once and for all…

Before you try to say something clever…

She knocked on the door and the sound echoed jarringly in the empty corridor. For a moment, she wondered if he might not be home. She would have wasted all this time for nothing. But the next moment, the door swung open, and as her presence on his doorstep registered, Shua gave a start of surprise. A smile began to grow on his lips but then faded as he peered closer at her.

"You're soaked!" he exclaimed. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside, closing the door behind her.

Olivier nearly lost her balance and she weaved slightly on her feet. "Look, I j-just want t-to get…uh…" She clamped her teeth shut against their chattering. Her whole body was shaking and she felt like it was betraying her. All those years in the frozen north, and she was shivering, of all things!

Shua moved in front of her, searching her face for a moment. He pressed his palm against her forehead and clicked his tongue. "Well, you're in a state, laleh." He folded his arms and eyed her critically. "What the hell are you doing wandering around in the rain with a fever and the shakes, hm?"

Olivier frowned irritably. "I came to…to…" For some reason, she couldn't remember any of her prepared speeches. "…borrow some aspirin," she mumbled finally.

"Ah." Shua nodded. "Well, I don't have any, but I'll just run next door and borrow some from my neighbor." He pointed to a high backed chair. "Have a seat and I'll be right back."

Olivier turned toward the chair but began to tip over. Shua caught her by the shoulders and steered her to the chair, maneuvering her down into it.

"Now don't wander off," he told her firmly. "You'll just hurt yourself. When I get back, I'll make you some tea."

"I can't stay…" Olivier mumbled. "Gotta…gotta catch a train…"

"Well, we'll see about that."

Olivier's eyelids felt like lead and she let them slide closed, just for a couple of minutes. She heard footsteps heading away from her and the sound of a door opening and closing. Then she slipped away into fevered oblivion.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Elycia Hughes cracked her eyes open. "Mama?" she called out faintly. "Mama?"

Shua's head popped into the doorway of the little girl's room. "Mama's over at my place, sweetheart," he said. He walked into the room and sat on the chair next to the bed. "She's helping me out with a little problem, but she'll be back in just a bit."

"What's she doin'?" Elycia asked.

"Well, you see, a friend of mine stopped by who has come down with the flu—just like you!" Shua tapped Elycia on the tip of her nose, eliciting a little smile. "So your mama very kindly offered to help her get into some jammies and get her tucked up in bed while I sit here and tell you stories. How does that sound?"

The little girl brightened up and nodded.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Rain was still slashing against the window pane, and it had grown darker. There was a light coming from somewhere, but she couldn't quite turn her head to see where it was coming from. She still felt like warmed-over death, but at least she was dry and comfortable. Why she was dry and comfortable was a puzzle, but at the moment, she didn't have the energy to figure it out.

From somewhere not that far away, she could hear some quiet singing. She couldn't figure out what the words were, but it was a comfortable, almost familiar sound, a pleasant, lilting melody, and she drifted back to sleep.

The next time she woke up, it was still dark, but the rain had stopped. She felt somewhat more alert and more inclined to try to figure out where she was. There was still some light coming from somewhere out of her line of vision. She turned her head one way, then the other. From what she could tell, she was in a bedroom, just not hers. She tried lifting her head to look down toward her feet, which was an effort, but she could see that the light was coming through an open doorway.

Olivier let her head drop back onto the pillow and thought. She lifted her arms a little, then her legs. No restraints. That was a good sign. The fact that the door was open was also a good sign. But it wouldn't do to take too many chances. Bracing herself with her arms, she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. Halfway through doing this, her head began to swim, and with a groan, she sank back into the bed.

A moment later, the room grew a little brighter as the door opened wider.

"Well, still with us? Kind of wondered about you for a while."

Olivier's eyes flew open. "Shua?"

The tousled silver head came into view. "That's right, love. Can I get you anything?"

Olivier's mind raced frantically. "What am I doing here?" she demanded in a fierce mumble.

"Well," Shua began, "you showed up at my door, dripping wet, running a fever, your teeth chattering in your head, and then you passed out in my favorite chair."

"What time is it?"

"It's coming up on nine," Shua replied.

Olivier tried to push herself up again. "Damn it! I'm gonna miss my damn train if I don't get- -" Her head throbbed and she suddenly felt nauseous.

Shua gently settled her back down and she didn't have the strength to fight him. "When I said nine, I meant nine o'clock at night. I took a peek at your ticket. That train left the station this morning."

Olivier lay frozen, staring at the Ishvalan's face. "That's not possible!"

Shua turned and left the room, returning a moment later with a newspaper in his hand. He turned the light on that stood on the nightstand and handed the paper to Olivier. "If you don't believe me, this is today's paper."

Squinting against the painful glare of the lamp, Olivier searched the top of the front page. There, in black and white, just above a side column whose headline read Influenza Outbreak Worst in Decades, was the date. It was the 28th. That was when she was supposed to pull into North City Station. She stared at Shua. "Are you telling me I've been asleep for twenty-four hours?"

"That's what I'm telling you."

Olivier suddenly felt frightened. An entire day of her life had vanished. "Did you drug me?" she demanded.

Shua rubbed his face and chuckled. "First time I've ever been asked that. No, I didn't."

The light from the nightstand was really bothering her. She lifted one of her arms to cover her eyes. Then she lifted it again to squint at the cream-colored muslin that was covering that arm. There was black and red embroidery along the edge of the sleeve. She stirred underneath the covers. Whatever she had on appeared to be the only article of clothing she had on.

"What is this?"

"One of my shirts."

She shot a suspicious glare at Shua. "How did I get into this and where is my uniform?" she growled.

"Relax, General," Shua said. "As much as I would have loved the honor, my neighbor lady is the one who got you undressed and into that shirt. Don't you remember?"

Olivier frowned as she tried to concentrate. She shook her head with a vague sense of panic. "No, I don't."

"Well, Gracia said it was like dressing a large rag doll," Shua remarked. "Your uniform is at the cleaners, by the way."

"Oh, God!" Olivier covered her face with her hands for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. She couldn't be here. She needed to get back to where she was safe and in control. She tried to sit up again. "I have to get back to Briggs!"

Shua pushed her back, not quite so gently this time. "Olivier, you have influenza! There are people dying from this! Don't you read the paper? They're not even going to let you on the train!"

Entirely against her will, tears began to fill her eyes. "No! You don't understand—"

"Well, maybe I don't." Shua swiped away an errant tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb and pulled the covers up to her chin. "I've never been to Briggs, but it sounds pretty solid. It's not going anywhere and neither are you. Anyway, they already know you're laid up."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Gracia called them yesterday," Shua explained. "Her husband was in the military, and it turns out that he once worked with your man Henschel, so it wasn't like a total stranger called them up and spun some tale. She told him not to expect you for a few days. And before you start fretting about your reputation, she told them you were staying with her." He spread his arms. "Everything is in hand, so you may as well just stay put and get better."

Olivier struggled with the realization of her predicament for several moments, then glumly and very reluctantly accepted it. "I don't get sick," she muttered.

Shua smiled. "No, of course not. Germs tuck their tails between their legs and run whenever they see you."

Olivier glowered up at the ceiling. "Why does my mouth taste so bad?" she asked. "Are you sure you didn't drug me?"

"That's probably the kechua you're tasting. It's pretty vile."

"What the hell is kechua?"

"It's a plant that grows in Ishval," Shua explained. "They peel off the bark and boil it to make a kind of tea to help bring down fevers. I had my son send me some when my neighbor's little girl came down with the flu. It's probably why you're not sicker than you already are."

Olivier closed her eyes, feeling completely exhausted. "You have answers for everything, don't you," she grumbled.

Shua laughed quietly. "Ah, laleh, I wish I did." He turned the light off on the nightstand. "See you in the morning."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

A hand across her forehead woke her up, and when she opened one eye, she had to squint against the sunlight pouring in through the window.

"Your fever's down," Shua said. He cocked his head to examine her features. "And you don't look quite so peaky."

Olivier had to admit, she felt a bit more human. She braced her arms against the bed to raise herself up, and this time, Shua helped her into a sitting position. Her head was still humming, but the ache was half what it was before. The same went for the ache in her joints. She pushed her fingers through her hair, which felt grubby. "Damn! I don't get sick!"

"So you said," Shua remarked. "You're lucky this isn't the desert fever. You'd still be flat on your ass. Unless you were a little kid, of course, then you'd be up and bouncing in no time," he added cheerfully. "Feel up to eating anything?"

Olivier shrugged indifferently. "What have you got?"

"I have some chicken soup," Shua said, "which Gracia tells me is good for absolutely everything outside of a broken heart, although her soup could definitely take the edge off. I also have some Ishvalan flatbread that I made myself, thanks very much," he added. "Naisha sent me some meskaa flour, so it's chu."

Olivier raised an eyebrow. "It's what?"

"Chu," Shua repeated. "That which is good in the eyes of God." Olivier still looked at him with a blank, dubious expression. "Proper. Authentic. Legit."

"All right, fine. So, you cook, huh?"

Shua gave a shrug. "I get by." He adjusted the pillows on the bed, fluffing them up so Olivier could sit back against them. "Now you just sit tight. I'll have your soup ready in a minute."

Olivier considered the lanky Ishvalan suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. "So what's with the nice act?"

Shua straightened up and gave her an innocent, puzzled look. "I'm always nice!"

"Horseshit! You're a swaggering popinjay with an inflated opinion of yourself."

"Oh, well…that's as may be," Shua chuckled and scratched the morning stubble on his jaw. His lips turned in a brief, somewhat mirthless half-smile. "Yours isn't the first sickbed I've sat by." He turned away. "Let me get your soup."

Olivier was about to hurl a few more remarks at him, but she blew out her cheeks and sat back against the pillows. Now that there was plenty of light in the room, she took the opportunity to look around. Along one side of the room, either lying on the floor, up on shelves, or propped against the wall, was a collection of musical instruments. It looked like the work of a lifetime and a closely-held passion.

On the nightstand next to the bed was a photograph of Shua's son, Dejan, his wife, and his daughter. Olivier picked it up and examined it a little more closely. Father and son certainly looked alike. She could even see a slight echo of Scar in his wife Naisha. Something about the cheekbones. The little girl looked like any other little girl. They looked supremely happy. Olivier put the photograph back on the nightstand. Happy people bothered her at the moment. She herself felt miserable. She hated being in situations over which she had no control. She hated being dependent on someone else. And she couldn't help wondering if Shua had some ulterior motive. If he did, she'd make him pay for it. Then again, she was the one who showed up on his doorstep. She groaned softly and pulled the blanket over her head.

"That bad, is it?"

"I'd rather not discuss it." Her voice came out muffled.

"Suit yourself. Now put the blankets down and sit up proper. Didn't your ma teach you any manners?"

"She gave up."

"Well, this tray's getting heavy, so sit the hell up."

Olivier pulled the blanket down to see Shua standing by the bedside with a tray in his hands. On it was a bowl that emitted delicate wisps of steam. He set the tray carefully over her legs. Along with the bowl was a plate with a couple of round, flat pieces of bread. She had to admit, it all smelled good.

She glanced up at him, a little grudgingly. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, General."

Olivier took a spoonful of soup and sipped at it. It was extremely good. She could practically feel her whole body eagerly sucking it up. After all, she hadn't eaten for nearly two days. She tore off a piece of the flatbread and tried that. It was good, too.

"Did you really make this bread?" she asked.

Shua nodded. He was leaning his forearms against the footboard of the bed. "It's not that hard. If you want more soup, there's plenty. Gracia brought over a whole pot of it."

Olivier sipped more of the soup, thinking she could easily go for seconds. "So is Gracia one of your conquests?"

Shua laughed. "What a filthy mind you have! No, she's not."

Olivier lifted an eyebrow. "Does she bring you treats just because she's nice?"

"Yes. Just because she's nice. Some people are like that. Besides," he added, "even if I wanted to win her over, I couldn't compete with her husband."

"And where's he all this time?"

"He's dead."

Olivier's spoon stilled for a moment. "Oh." Her brows furrowed slightly. "You said he was in the military. What was his name?"

"Maes Hughes," Shua replied. "He sounded like a heck of a guy. Poor bastard was murdered." He shook his head. "He survived the war in Ishval just to lose his life over a desk job."

"I remember hearing about him," Olivier said, recalling the story Fullmetal told her in that tunnel under Briggs. She didn't know how much Shua knew, so she didn't offer any information. She ate a bit more, then realized that Shua was still standing there, contemplating her with a thoughtful look on his face. She scowled slightly. "Aren't you supposed to be off doing something parliamentary?"

Shua shook his head. "No, we're having a recess. About two-thirds of the members are down with the flu." He grinned. "So I have all kinds of time on my hands."

"Until you catch it, too," Olivier replied. "Or have you already?"

"Nope. I'm starting to wonder if having the desert fever as a kid made me immune to damn near everything else." He moved around the footboard and sat down on the bed facing Olivier, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. He leaned back and closed his eyes, generally making himself comfortable. Olivier tried to concentrate on her soup, but the sight of his bare brown feet on the bedspread near her right thigh was a little annoying. Still, it was his bed.

"I, um…I appreciate this," she muttered, glaring at her bowl. "I realize I'm putting you out."

Shua waved a hand. "You're not. We Ishvalans take hospitality seriously, especially those of us who grew up with nothing. Poor folk know the real value of sharing a bit of bread and soup." Opening his eyes to look at her, he tapped his chest lightly with his fist. "It feeds you here, not just your belly."

She could find no fault with that, and she felt the slightest twinge of shame at her suspicions about his motives. She tipped the bowl up slightly to get the last bit of soup with her spoon, but Shua said, "Just pick the bowl up, love. That's how we do it in Ishval." He gave her a wink. "I won't tell your mother."

Olivier smiled a little and lifted the bowl to her mouth, slurping the last bit of broth and noodles. As she started to set the bowl down, she tilted it slightly to examine it. It was the same red ceramic ware as the tea set Miles had given her. She turned the empty bowl upside down and saw the same Ishvalan initials painted on the bottom. It was another piece made by Vesya and her brother. She gave a quiet sigh and righted the bowl, setting it down on the tray.

"Ready for more?"

"Yes." Olivier glanced up at him and added, "Please."

She sat back as Shua took the bowl and left, returning a few moments later and setting a full bowl on the tray. Then he resumed his seat at the foot of the bed, sitting cross-legged.

After a few more spoonfuls of soup Olivier nodded toward the pile of instruments. "That's quite a collection you have," she remarked, mainly to make conversation.

"Isn't it?" Shua replied with a proud grin. "That used to be how I scraped up a bit of bread. Now it's my hobby." He chuckled. "Funny world, isn't it?" He waved his hand around, indicating the apartment. "See this? I used to live in a ramshackle, thrown-together little hovel on the outskirts of Ishval. Now I'm in a furnished apartment in one of the nicer areas of Central, and I've never even been to school! My first night here I laughed so hard, I nearly pissed myself."

"You're here to represent the people of Ishval, aren't you?" Olivier asked. "Don't you take that seriously?"

"Oh, to be sure! On the other hand, it still strikes me as a big joke," Shua said. "I'm just trying to figure out who it's on. I was voted into office by the very people who once looked down on me for being a vatrish."

"A what?"

"A street player. It comes from the word vatri, which means dusty, so that tells you what people thought of us."

"I didn't think Ishvalans could afford to be snobs," Olivier observed.

"Oh, don't you believe it, love," Shua told her. "There were plenty of those. Of course," he added, "there were plenty who weren't. Like Andakar." He shook his head with a slight smile. "A prince among men, that one."

"There are those who might disagree with you," Olivier said, tearing off a bit of flatbread and dunking it in her soup. Her mother wasn't there, after all.

"Hm! Fuck 'em!" Shua replied curtly. "I don't give a shit what he's done. If he had his reasons, then that's fine with me. He helped me out once. I didn't want his help, but I needed it badly."

"How's that, if you don't mind me asking."

Shua thought for a moment, a nostalgic, almost sad smile on his face. "Well, he helped me come to terms with Maya's death, I suppose you could say."

"Maya. Was she your wife?"

"Oh, we weren't married, but I suppose you could call her that," Shua replied. He let out a quiet sigh. "She was a sweet girl."

Olivier paused, frowning, then closed her eyes. "You said mine wasn't the first sickbed you sat by. You had to care for your- -for Maya while she was..." She had never tiptoed around death before, but this was someone else's grief.

"Dying," Shua finished for her. "It's all right. I knew it was going to happen."

Olivier sighed. "I'm sorry. For your loss, I mean. And…for what I said that night," she mumbled.

She glanced at Shua and found him regarding her with a gentle smile, not his usual smirk. It seemed to transform him, and she took the time to study him. She had to admit, he wasn't bad-looking. He didn't have the aristocratic bearing and meticulous grooming of someone like Miles, but he had slightly weathered yet still youthful features. He had a somewhat narrow face and a thin, not-too-long nose, and at the moment, he had an intelligent look on his face.

"Don't worry about it, Olivier," he said. "She's having a well-deserved rest in Ishvala's bosom, but she still keeps an eye on me, I know. I'd like to say I've done right by her. I managed to raise our son to be a decent man, and he's gone on to raise his daughter to be a fine girl. I say my prayers when I ought to, mostly." A grin spread across his face, just as cheeky as usual, but Olivier found it warmer than she remembered. "I may be a bit of a rascal, but at least I admit it, Ishvala bless my poor, raggedy soul!" He nodded at the tray on her lap. "Done?"

Olivier nodded. "Yes, thank you."

She sat back as Shua slid off the bed and reached over to pick up the tray. He headed toward the door, pausing before he left the room. "Anything else I can get you, Miss Olivier?"

She felt tired from the exertion of eating and talking, but she felt that she wasn't quite done. "You can answer a question for me."

Shua lifted his shoulders. "Ask away."

She regarded him critically for a moment, then asked, "Who are you?"

Shua's eyebrows rose slightly. "Uh…has your fever suddenly addled your wits?"

Olivier shook her head. "No, you twit! I mean, who is Shua? Is he a jackass or a gentleman? Is he one pretending to be the other? Or is he just both?"

"Oh, I see." Shua pull a thoughtful face. "Hmm…I guess I'd have to say yes to that last question. I'm probably a few other things besides. Depends on the circumstances, I suppose."

"So when I was in Ishval," Olivier went on with a dry tone to her voice, "what, exactly, did the circumstances call for?"

Shua let out a laugh. "Ah, what can I say, love? You caught my fancy!"

Olivier rolled her eyes, which hurt and made her wince. "I wasn't trying to catch anyone's fancy."

"Who said you had to try?" Shua replied. "You're a lovely woman."

Olivier scowled. It was never something she wanted to be judged by. "I didn't get where I am on my looks."

"Oh, I know that. That's why I figured you wouldn't notice me for mine." He flashed her a brilliant smile. "I had to get your attention somehow." He turned away with the tray. "Get some rest now."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

"…and the proprietor was just as pleased because people starting coming to his tea house just to hear me play. By the end of the week, Peng's was turning into the hottest spot in town. Are you going to finish that?"

Olivier looked down at the plate on her tray. While she slept off and on for most of the day, Shua had gone out and picked her uniform up from the cleaners, bought her a train ticket for the next day, collected the rest of her laundry from Gracia, and stopped by one of his favorite restaurants to order take-out. He brought home a feast of stuffed cabbage, pierogies, and sausage. She wasn't quite sure how he happened to know that she loved stuffed cabbage. It was better than her family's cook's recipe.

"I couldn't eat another bite," she sighed.

"Fair enough." Shua reached across the bed and took her plate, helping himself to her leftovers.

"You could catch my flu doing that," Olivier remarked.

Shua shrugged. "I'd rather catch it from you than anyone else."

"Tch!" Olivier settled comfortably back against her pillow. "You're such a flatterer."

"Anyway, where was I? Oh, right! So one night, about a week and a half after I'd started at Peng's, the place suddenly fills up with all these fellows in black. One moment, everything was fine, and the next moment I was surrounded. The place got really quiet." Shua lowered his voice ominously and Olivier had to smile. The man loved to tell a story. "Normally, I could take on a number of footpads and cutpurses without much problem. But these were professionals. They all wore masks, which made them even scarier. I thought at first that I was breaking some sort of law that nobody bothered to tell me about, because I'd done that sort of thing before. But they just stood there, watching me. So I just kept on playing.

"I'm still keeping an eye on them, though. A couple of them lean close to each other and whisper. I had picked up a fair amount of Xingese, but I couldn't hear what they were saying or even read their lips. Finally, one of them steps right up in front of me and holds up his hand to tell me to stop. So I sit there, waiting for him to say something, and he tells me in pretty thick Amestrian that they're taking me to see the Emperor. I hear gasping from the tea house customers, and I think, well, this isn't good. I ask him what I'd done to attract such exalted attention. He told me to just come with them."

Shua lifted his shoulders, a chunk of kielbasa on the end of his fork. "What was I supposed to do? I told Peng to hold on to my share of that night's take, just in case I made it back, and I left with the fellows in black. Imagine my surprise," he went on with a grin, "when right out there in the street was this fancy-ass palanquin thing and a little man wearing the Imperial livery opening the door and bowing to me!" He let out a laugh. "A moment before I thought I was a dead man. I still could be, but at least I was going in style! So I get in and they trot me off out of the city and all the way to the palace. When I get there, I step out of the palanquin and practically right into this chubby fellow in blue silk who looks at me like I was vermin. But I was used to that, so I give him the same look back.

"He asks me if I brought my instrument with me. I held it up, saying that anyone who tried to take it from me would get his arm broken. He gives a sniff and tells me to follow him. I don't suppose you've ever been to Xing, have you?"

Olivier shook her head. "No. My parents went there."

"Don't I know it! We had some grand old times, but that's another story. So I follow this fellow through all these corridors that were absolutely dripping with riches, and we finally end up in this big chamber. All these fellows dressed up in silk and funny hats are sitting in rows on the floor and they were silent as the grave. At the far end is a big silk brocade curtain, and there's a stool in front of this. The fat fellow tells me to sit down there and play. Nothing loud or jarring, he says. Something soothing. So I did my usual thing of just making something up as I go. And I sit there doing this for nearly an hour!"

Shua sat back against the footboard, setting his empty plate aside. "Finally, the curtain gives a little stir, and the fat man hurries up to it and pokes his head behind it. He whispers for a bit, then turns to look at me. He tells me that His Celestial Majesty is pleased, which is always a good thing to hear. I'm escorted from the room, I get set up in a very nice little apartment, and I'm told that my services will be required for the foreseeable future. So I spend the next several months strolling around the palace, eating the most incredible food, rubbing elbows with the quality, and playing music a few times a day to soothe the poor, ailing Emperor of Xing. Not bad, eh?"

Olivier shook her head. "I'd say I didn't believe a word of it, but this is you we're talking about."

Shua gave a chuckle. "Oh, Miss Olivier, I have even more unbelievable stories than that. But," he said, getting up and gathering the empty plates, "you need to get to sleep if you're going to catch the train in the morning."

Olivier nodded and lay back. Oddly enough, as anxious as she was to get back to her citadel, she felt a fleeting twinge of disappointment at the thought of leaving. Apart from being sick, the last few days had actually been pleasant. She supposed that if she was going to get sick and wallow in bed, she was glad it had happened here rather than at Briggs or at the Armstrong mansion, God forbid.

Shua took the plates out of the room and returned. "Anything else I can get you?" he asked.

Olivier gave a luxurious stretch and drew the covers up to her chin. "What did you play for the Emperor of Xing that pleased him so much?"

Shua gave a quiet laugh. "Oh, so you'd like me to sing you to sleep, too, your Celestial Highness?"

Olivier smirked. "Idiot," she muttered sleepily.

"I'll do you one better," Shua said. He went over to his collection of instruments and picked up something that looked like a long-necked mandolin. He looped the strap over his head and gave it a quick tuning. "I don't do this for just anyone. I used to sing this to Maya when she was fretful and couldn't sleep. Times were tough back then."

Accompanying himself with soft, rhythmic strumming, Shua began to sing quietly in Ishvalan. Even without knowing what he was singing, Olivier could tell it was a lullaby. It was a warm, gentle, comforting melody, and as she drifted off to sleep, she last thing she remembered was a pair of lips brushing against her cheek and a whispered "Good night, princess."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

She still wasn't quite a hundred percent, but it would be enough to get her on the train and back to Briggs. Shua had woken her up in time to take a shower, and with her freshly cleaned uniform, she felt invigorated.

"Thanks again for everything, Shua," she said as they stood by the door. "And thank Mrs. Hughes for me."

"It's been a treat, General," Shua replied. "And Gracia loves helping people. Are you sure you don't want me to call you a cab?"

"No, I'll just wave one down." Olivier turned toward the door. She suddenly felt vaguely awkward, as though she ought to say something else. But despite all her mother's efforts to teach her eldest daughter social graces, Olivier never really learned how to graciously conclude a situation like this. Especially with someone like Shua, whose red-eyed gaze was at once both casual and unnerving, as though he could easily see right through her. "Um…thanks again," was all she could manage.

Shua just smiled and grasped the doorknob, giving it a turn. Then he stopped and gave her a quizzical look. "You know, I can't help wondering, Miss Armstrong."

Olivier frowned at him slightly. "What?"

"Why did you come by here in the first place?" he asked. "Was it really just to borrow some aspirin?"

Olivier had actually forgotten, and she returned his question with an unguarded look, which caught Shua a little by surprise. Then a grin spread across his face, which would normally have irritated her, but this time it caused a flutter to start in her stomach that had nothing to do with influenza.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Henschel hung up the phone and sat frowning at it for several moments. The second lieutenant and the quartermaster who had been talking to him when the phone rang waited silently. Henschel glanced up at their questioning looks.

"That was the general," he said. "She's going to be another couple of days in Central. She says she's still not quite recovered."

"Huh," the second lieutenant remarked. "That flu's a pretty big deal."

Henschel shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. Dismissed!"

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Chapter Text

So long as Romance exists and Lochinvar remains young manhood's ideal, love at first sight and marriage in a week is within the boundaries of possibility. But usually (and certainly more wisely) a young man is for some time attentive to a young woman before dreaming of marriage. Thus not only have her parents plenty of time to find out what manner of man he is, and either accept or take means to prevent a serious situation; but the modern young woman herself is not likely to be "carried away" by the personality of anyone whose character and temperament she does not pretty thoroughly understand and weigh.

Emily Post Etiquette 1922

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Olivier paced back and forth across the clay tile floor and pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead. The cheerful, festive voices that wafted in through the window set her teeth on edge.

What am I doing?

Why am I here?

Why are they here?

She stormed toward the door, glaring out into the hallway. She startled the little dark-haired girl who had just walked by, and she scurried to seek the comfort of her father's side. Olivier gave Danika an apologetic if somewhat dour look, then she glared at the big Ishvalan.

"Why?" she demanded through gritted teeth. "Why did you do it?"

Scar put his hand gently on top of Danika's head. "Go outside, little blackbird," he told her. "Go see if Auntie Naisha needs any help."

Danika left, somewhat gratefully, and Scar turned to Olivier with a dark look. "Because they are your family and you would have done them a great dishonor to take such a step behind their backs," he replied stiffly. "And if you're going to stand under my roof"—he glanced up, ruefully and irritably, at the canvas that was stretched over their heads—"and make a mockery of my people's customs and beliefs, I wanted your parents to be witnesses to it!"

"I'm not making a mockery of anything!" Olivier retorted. "Did you have to tell Mustang too?"

Scar was neither moved nor concerned. "We don't have telephones here yet. I had to radio someone to pass the message on to your parents."

Olivier clenched her fists, hoping to somehow stem the rising tide of futility. "You obviously have failed to grasp the meaning of eloping."

"If you're going to do something you think is shameful, then don't come here and do it!" Scar shot back. "Marriage is a sacred commitment and should not be treated like—"

"Andakar, my love," Rada said as she stepped past Olivier from the other end of the hallway, carrying a basket of bell peppers in one arm and some clothing draped over her other arm. She went up to her husband. "Stop upsetting yourself. Why don't you go outside while General Armstrong gets ready."

"Ready for what?" Scar demanded, flinging a hand toward Olivier. He switched to Ishvalan and growled something scathing, to which Rada replied sedately. He continued to argue, and Rada changed to a somewhat sharper tone and shoved the basket of peppers into Scar's arms. He heaved a deep grudging sigh and turned around to go out the front door, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Rada turned back toward Olivier and smiled. "Don't mind him."

Olivier scowled sullenly. "I just can't believe he did that! After everything I did for him!"

"Oh, well," Rada said soothingly. "They are your family, after all. I would have given anything to have my family with me when I got married to Andakar," she sighed. She went into the bedroom and laid the clothes she'd been carrying out on the bed, which was something of an effort because she was enormously pregnant. When she straightened up, she pressed a hand to the small of her back and gave a little grimace. Then her features smoothed over, untroubled. "These were mine." She turned and sized Olivier up. "I'm a little shorter than you, but they should fit you all right."

Olivier gazed despairingly at the assortment lying on the bed. There was a simple dress of muslin, heavily embroidered along the bottom, the edges of the long sleeves, and the neck. There was also a red over-tunic, also embroidered, as well as a large rectangle of cream-colored cloth, which Rada picked up and draped over Olivier's head, drawing the corners under her hair behind her neck.

"There," she said approvingly with a smile. "Now you look like a bride!"

"Great!" Olivier muttered.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"I've seen some weird shit in my life," Miles remarked in an undertone. He had donned his dress uniform for the occasion. "But this has got to be the most insane thing I've ever been witness to."

Scar gave a disgusted snort in agreement. He saw no need to dress up. They stood together off to one side of the courtyard at the end of the cul-de-sac that their houses stood on, along with Damyan's house and Dejan's house. They were still under construction, but work had come to a standstill. Tables and benches had been set up in preparation for a festive occasion, and a rather mixed but highly amiable crowd was in attendance. Phillip, Sophia, Alex, and Catherine Armstrong, as well as Brigadier General and Mrs. Mustang, were sitting along with Shua, Dejan, and their family and musicians. They had arrived the previous morning, beating Olivier by a day. The wedding that they had come to attend was running a bit late, but no one seemed to mind.

Scar jerked his chin toward Alex, who had just let out a booming laugh at something Shua had said. "The moment he saw me yesterday, he ripped off his shirt, bellowed out 'comrade!' and threw his arms around me. Then he burst into tears."

Miles let out a snort of laughter, for which Scar gave him a mild glare. "For all his size and strength," Miles said, "Alex is very tenderhearted." He nudged Scar with his elbow. "Kind of like you."

"Hm!" Scar growled quietly, and his scowl grew deeper as he watched Shua leave the party and walk over to them.

The lanky Ishvalan spread his hands beseechingly. "Ah, don't look at me like that, Zhaarad! You should be happy for me!"

"This is a farce!" Scar told him.

"The hell it is!" Shua countered. "It was love at first sight, really it was! It just took us a while to realize it. Besides," he added with a shrug and a crooked grin. "I have to let her make an honest man of me."

Scar blew on his palm, dismissing a particularly offensive thought. "I don't want to hear about it, Shua!" he remarked in disgust and walked away.

"Ai!" Shua sighed and shook his head. He turned to Miles. "Surely you're happy for me?"

"I'm adopting a wait and see attitude for the moment," Miles replied dryly. "And so far, I haven't seen much. Are you sure this is even going to happen?"

"Of course it will," Shua insisted. "Ollie's a big girl. She can deal with this." He waved at the boisterous crowd around the tables. "I wanted them all to come anyway, so I'm just as pleased. I'm just glad I'm not the one who let the cat out of the bag or she'd be pretty pissed at me."

"It's my guess that General Armstrong is extremely pissed right now," Miles said. "And I know her pretty well."

"Oh, I don't think you know her the way I know her," Shua said with a soft, low laugh. "She's like an orange. On the outside, she's tough and slippery, but once you get past that, she's all soft and juicy and sweet on the—"

"Oh, Ishvala!" Miles exclaimed, pressing his hands against his ears. "I did not want to hear that!"

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Olivier had never really had a confidante her entire life. She had always kept her innermost thoughts and feelings to herself, relying on her own instincts and intuition to make decisions. Opening up to someone else meant making yourself vulnerable. She had taken a chance and revealed more of herself to Shua than she had to anyone else in her life, and he didn't take advantage of it or make her feel like she'd given up anything. It was one of the things that really endeared him to her.

But now she felt out of her depth and she had to finally admit that she needed some advice. She had never consulted her parents over these matters and she wasn't going to start now. Her parents were treating this like a big picnic. They had brought their own tent and were having fun camping out, so it was fairly obvious that they had no idea what sort of anguish she was going through. Judging by the helpless, bemused look she saw on Miles' face when she got here, he was probably not going to be of much help either. Scar had already expressed his opinion in no uncertain terms.

She considered the young Ishvalan matron standing before her. There was something about Rada that was, for want of a better word, slightly awe-inspiring. She radiated a kind of serenity that Olivier almost envied.

"Am I being stupid?" Olivier asked in desperation. "I mean, honestly, what do you think?"

Rada looked a little surprised. "Stupid about what? About marrying Shua? Is it because your family's here?"

"It's sure not helping," Olivier admitted. She gestured toward the window from which they could hear voices and laughter from outside. "I agreed to come here because I figured it was remote enough for my family to not find out until it was over."

Rada smiled and shook her head. "Andakar seems to think you're both being foolish. But neither you nor Shua are the flighty types. Well," she added with a shrug. "Maybe Shua. But this is something he'd take seriously, and so would you." She looked intently into Olivier's blue eyes. "You must love him very much, or you would never have come here." She waved toward the window. "And if you love him that much, none of this should make a difference."

Olivier gazed morosely at the clothes on the bed. "Do I have to wear this?"

Rada gave a little shrug. "I'm not going to make you," she said. "But it's actually very comfortable. Vesya told me about all the fancy dresses the ladies wore at your sister's party. I'm sure you all looked lovely, but I don't see how you could have stood it for as long as you did."

Olivier gave a little half smile. "I don't either."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then. I'll be in the kitchen if—" Rada drew in a quick breath and rubbed the small of her back, her brows furrowing. "If you need any help."

Olivier looked at her cautiously. "Are you all right?"

Rada nodded, her brows still a little pinched. "Oh, yes. I'm all right." She turned a reassuring smile to Olivier, laying her hands over her belly. "The babies are moving around, that's all."

"Babies?"

"Oh, yes! We're having twins!" Rada said proudly. She left the room, drawing the curtain that was acting as a door.

Olivier turned to stare at the clothing on the bed. It was obvious that a lot of work had gone into making this outfit, and it had probably been done without its maker going into some sort of bizarre trance. She picked up the muslin underdress, held it up to her shoulders and looked down at herself. She closed her eyes and sighed. She felt utterly foolish. She had made a decision in an entirely uncharacteristic moment of weakness, and it had gotten completely out of hand. There was a mass of people outside who were all there to watch her do something that was meant to be done with a minimum of fuss and even fewer bystanders. But that wasn't even what was making her feel so foolish. Deep down, she was just plain scared and she didn't want anyone to know. The best thing she could do was make a brisk apology to everyone, a somewhat more private apology to Shua, and make a strategic retreat.

Tossing the dress back on the bed, she left the room and went out into the front part of the house, which was a large room, a sitting/dining area. Glancing around, she saw Rada leaning against the wall with one hand and holding her other hand against her belly, in apparent distress. Olivier hurried over to her.

"What's the matter?" she asked quickly. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

Rada shook her head and managed a strained smile. "Nothing's wrong. Can you go tell my husband that the babies are coming?"

"They are?" Olivier felt a rising panic. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm—I'm sure." Rada sucked in another quick breath. "I've done this before."

"Right!" Olivier said decisively. "I'll be right back!" She was about to turn away, then grabbed a nearby chair and set it down behind Rada, helping to ease her down on it. Then she sprinted out the front door.

Fortunately, Scar wasn't far away. He had been hovering near the front of his house, away from the crowd on the other side of the courtyard. He turned as Olivier approached him, frowning at the look on her face.

"Your wife needs you," she told him. "She's going into labor."

Scar's tawny complexion went somewhat ashen as he stared at the Amestrian general. "She's…is she sure?"

"Of course she's sure!" Olivier snapped back. "She's done this before!"

Scar's eyes swept desperately across the courtyard. "Tell her I'll be right there!" He strode away, bellowing out, "Damyan!"

Olivier would have preferred to make herself scarce in a situation like this, but she went back into the house. Rada was still sitting on the stool, looking a little less distressed.

"He says he'll be right here," Olivier told her.

Rada nodded. "Thank you." She pushed herself up and moved carefully toward the hallway.

Olivier groaned inwardly and took hold of Rada's elbow, helping to guide her toward the bedroom. Rada patted her hand, as much to comfort her as to express thanks. A moment later, Scar burst in through the front door, shouldered Olivier aside, and scooped Rada up into his arms, cradling her tenderly.

"I've sent Damyan for Dr. Marcoh," he told her, making an effort to keep his voice calm. "He'll be here soon."

He carried her into the bedroom and set her down on the bed. Olivier stood in the doorway.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

Scar snatched up the underdress and the red tunic that were lying on the bed and thrust them into her arms. "Go get married!" he replied curtly.

Olivier was about to make an angry retort back, but Scar had turned away, having as good as forgotten she was there. Wasn't much point now. She went outside into the courtyard, passing by a cluster of women talking animatedly. Danika clung silently to Vesya's hand, her features clouded with anxiety.

Vesya reached out to catch Olivier's attention as she walked by. "General Armstrong! Do they need anything while they're waiting for Dr. Marcoh? Did they ask for anyone else?"

Olivier shrugged. "No," she replied. "Not me, certainly."

"It's not proper!" Miles' ancient aunt was saying, rapping the ground with her stick. "It's the husband's duty to stay out of the way!"

"Well, I think it's sweet!" Naisha retorted, disregarding Zulema's snort. "And it's just like Andakar. He's hopeless at delegating."

Having enough concerns of her own, Olivier moved on. She had no particular desire to join the party at the tables, but she approached the outskirts of it to get Shua's attention. Roy saw her first.

"Everything in order in there?" he asked, nodding toward Scar's house. "Do we need to boil some water?"

"Yeah, you do that, Mustang," Olivier replied. "Then go soak your head in it." She turned to Shua. "Can I speak to you?"

"Excuse me for a moment, Phil," he said to Mr. Armstrong. "I need to have a word with your lovely daughter."

"Oh, yes, yes, by all means!" Phillip chuckled amiably and, it sounded to Olivier, already a bit tipsy. "My lovely daughter! Yes, indeed!"

Shua clapped him on the shoulder and went over to Olivier, who said quietly, "Somewhere out of the way."

A brief, quizzical look flickered through Shua's eyes, but he gave a nod over his shoulder. "Over here." They skirted around the tables as he led her toward the house he shared with his son.

"It's a little early for that, isn't it, Dad?" Dejan called out with a laugh.

"Why don't you polish off another bottle and mind your own business, son," Shua called back. There was a simple wooden bench against the wall that faced a small yard between Dejan's house and Miles' house. It was just outside the view of those in the courtyard. Shua stopped there and looked down at Olivier. "Something on your mind, love?" he asked her. He smiled that particular subtle smile that cut like a razor through her resolve. "Or did you just want to get me alone?"

Olivier had to force herself to look up and meet his gaze. She had started out with every intention of being adamant and uncompromising. But she could tell by the look in his eyes that he already knew something was wrong.

"Shua, we can't—" She stopped and quietly cleared her throat. Her voice had come out soft and entirely too feminine. That was the effect he had on her. She lifted her chin and hardened her voice. "We can't do this."

He tilted his head slightly. She couldn't tell if what she had said surprised him or if it hadn't. He still kept a half-smile on his lips, but the warmth had left it just a little. "Ah." He glanced past the corner of the house toward the party out in the courtyard. "You know, none of that was my idea."

"Yes, I know that! I'm not blaming you."

"We can wait, you know. Give them a few more hours and they'll be so drunk they'll have no idea what's going on."

Olivier shook her head impatiently. "No, that's not it!" she said. "We just…" She let out an irritated breath. "This just isn't going to work!"

"It suited us well enough when we thought of it," Shua replied. "You'd go back to Briggs, I'd go back to Central, and when we could, I'd go up, you'd come down, or we'd meet up here." He tipped up her chin and smiled into her eyes. "Or did you forget all those hours in each other's arms, whispering about our future?"

"No, I haven't forgotten!" Olivier could already feel her determination begin to unravel at the edges. "But that was then! And this…this…"

"—is now?" Shua finished for her, his tone dry.

"We lost our heads! That's all!" Olivier declared. "You have to admit that!"

His gaze was gentle but it still bore into her eyes as though he could read her soul. What was is about these Ishvalans? She held her own gaze steadily, but she knew she wasn't fooling him. Finally he nodded.

"The last thing I want to do is make you unhappy," Shua said. "Of course we lost our heads." His eyes drank in her features, his fingertips brushing the hair from her face and lightly tracing her cheek. He smile grew sad. "But I lost my heart, too."

Olivier drew away a little from his touch. "I wasn't trying to take it from you," she murmured.

Shua's hand stilled near her face for a moment, then he let it fall. "Ah, well…"

Olivier's shoulders slumped. "I'm so sorry, Shua," she said quietly.

"It's all right, love," he assured her. "If I couldn't quite catch hold of your heart, you can still keep mine." He bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Take good care of it for me, eh?"

Olivier couldn't think of a reply to that, and Shua didn't seem to require one. She thought that she would have felt relieved by how well he was taking this, but she felt miserable.

Shua glance toward the courtyard. "I'll explain to everyone in a bit." He gave a slight smirk. "They probably all think we've been having them on anyway."

Olivier just nodded and he left. She went to sit down on the bench and leaned back against the wall, waiting for either cries of indignation or howls of laughter from the wedding guests, but nothing seemed to change, even as the minutes ticked by. She closed her eyes and thought of how much better she would feel once she was back behind the familiar, dependable, sane walls of Briggs.

"Well, dear, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

Olivier's eyes flew open and she turned her head to see her mother sit down on the bench beside her.

"Shua told you already?"

Sophia shook her head. "No, he hasn't said a word," she replied. "He didn't have to. I could see it in the poor man's face." She smoothed out the folds of her floral print skirt with gloved hands. "I've seen that look before. I turned your father down twice before I finally said yes. He had the same look on his face. More or less," she added with a slight smile.

"You never told me that," Olivier said, a little surprised. "Neither did Father."

"No, of course your father wouldn't have told you," Sophia replied. "An Armstrong never admits defeat. Surely he's told you that enough."

Olivier smiled a little. "All through school. All through the academy."

"I should think so. He tells that to all his children. That's why Amue and Strongine aren't here. Your father suggested they volunteer at the military hospital. They're rather good at lifting patients." Sophia smiled with maternal pride. "And they looked rather darling in their red and white striped uniforms."

"I bet," Olivia murmured.

"Yes, we're very proud of all our children, each in their own way," Sophia went on, then gave a wistful sigh. "Today has been rather a disappointment, though.

"Sorry!" Olivier muttered. "I would have though becoming a major general was enough."

"We never expected any less of you, Olivier darling," Sophia said matter-of-factly. "But really, it's nothing to boast about simply because you're a woman. If a man can reach such a rank, it can't be all that hard. Getting married would have been an accomplishment that we never would have expected from you." Sophia took a small gold compact from her handbag and opened it up, inspecting her hair and makeup. "Apart from all that, it's been a nice visit," she said cheerfully. "It was very kind of Governor Ruhad to invite us."

"I don't think he was exactly motivated by kindness," Olivier remarked dryly.

"Nonsense, Olivier," her mother replied, frowning at the sight of a couple of grey hairs at her temple. "He's a father. I'm sure he wouldn't want to miss his daughter's wedding, either. I just wish him better luck than I've had. Interesting man. Not what I was expecting. I must remember to send his children presents when we get back." She snapped her compact closed. "I suppose you'll be going straight back to Briggs."

"As soon as humanly possible."

"Hm, yes. We may stay another day or two. I rather like it here. Shua's family is quite charming." Sophia patted her daughter's hand as she stood up. "Have a nice sulk, dear."

Olivier didn't reply, but before her mother cleared the corner of the house, she sat up. "Mother!"

Sophia paused and looked back. "Yes?"

"If you turned Father down twice, what made you change your mind the third time?"

Sophia gave a little shrug. "I suppose it was because he went to the trouble of asking me a third time. Never admit defeat, remember?" She thought for a moment. "Or maybe it was the puppy eyes he made."

Olivier's eyebrows went up. "Puppy eyes? Father?"

"On occasion, yes. In any case," Sophia added, "I haven't regretted a single moment of it."

She walked away, disappearing around the corner of the house, leaving Olivier to sit for some time, staring at the ground. The party out in the courtyard seemed to be progressing just as well without her. After a while she frowned at the bundle of clothing she was still clutching in her hands. She shook out the underdress and the tunic and folded them as well as she could, laying them on the bench beside her, making a mental note to get them returned to their owner. She couldn't very well barge in on them at the moment with a cheerful wave and a cry of thanks all the same.

Puppy eyes, huh?

Well, she couldn't accuse Shua of that. That wasn't something he would ever have to resort to. His eyes were fine the way they were. He had a nice voice, too. And he had a rakish, insightful sense of humor. And he had nice lips. She had been surprised by their smoothness. And he had long, slender fingers. And then there was…

She pressed her hands to her face. Why couldn't she stop thinking about him? Now, of all times? Every time she encountered him, he turned everything upside down. He made her do things that she always considered contrary to her nature. Like right now. She never had a problem making a decision. Now all she could do was sit there, unable to decide where to go if she stood up or even if she should stand up at all. Maybe if she started walking, she could get to the next train station by…a couple of days from now.

Music could be heard from the courtyard, probably to while away the time, to celebrate nothing in particular. A few voices joined together in song, and Olivier recognized Shua among them. He seemed to be putting on a good show, considering she had just broken his heart. She would have felt stupid plugging her fingers in her ears, but despite its cheerfulness, the song made her heart ache. That was something else Shua had done to her. She had never ached for anyone until now.

"With respect, General, I'd say you've got it bad."

With her hands still over her face, Olivier peered out from between her fingers. Standing by the corner of the house were Miles and Vesya. They both gazed at her sympathetically, which she wished they wouldn't do, but Vesya sat down next to her, her expression full of concern.

"You poor thing!" she breathed.

Olivier dropped her hands in her lap. She never had been, nor would she ever be a poor thing. "I'm fine!" she replied. She tried to sound irritable, but she didn't quite make it.

"Do you want to come inside?" Miles asked, moving to stand in front of her.

Olivier looked up at him. So stalwart and dependable. "Honestly, Miles, I don't know what I want," she heard herself admit, despising the helpless sound in her voice.

He considered her critically for a moment, then said, "General Armstrong, I'm going to talk to you for just a moment as though there is no rank dividing us, and I apologize ahead of time for any offense given."

Olivier closed her eyes wearily. "You go right ahead."

"When I first heard about this," he said, his tone less cautious and respectful than usual and a bit more big brotherly (which was funny because he was younger than her), "I thought you were either completely out of your mind"—his voice was almost sharp, then it softened—"or you were completely in love. Something tells me that it was a bit of both."

Olivier looked up at him, almost grateful. "You're right, Colonel," she said. "It would have to be both."

A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. "Are you still?"

"Both?" she asked with her own smirk, which faded. It wasn't even remotely amusing. She nodded slightly. "Yeah."

"Then why are you still sitting here?" Vesya demanded.

Olivier turned to her. "I suppose that would be the 'completely out of my mind' part," she replied. She sighed and did something her mother would do. She patted Vesya's hand. "You wouldn't get it. You've always known what you wanted."

Vesya grasped Olivier's hand in both hers. "Don't you?"

Olivier frowned slightly as though from a twinge of pain. "I thought I did."

Miles crouched down in front of her. "If you're suffering this much, then you must still love him. You're just too damn stubborn to admit it. And you're too damn stubborn to admit you may have made a mistake."

Olivier gazed at him, startled, and he went on. "You're one of the most valiant soldiers I've ever met, so why you're running scared now is beyond me." He fixed her with a stern, red-eyed gaze. "Is your heart the only opponent you can't face down?" His look softened and he stood up, giving an inclination of his head. "No offense, General."

"None taken." Olivier was just a little too amazed to be offended. Miles had never dared to speak to her like that before. Having his own command must have gone to his head. No. She smiled a little. It suited him. She sat silently for several moments, then, with a determined set of her chin, she stood up. "What's your tactical assessment, Colonel?" she asked.

"You mean, how do you go back out there and face your family without looking like a fool?"

Olivier was about to make a curt reply, but Vesya spoke up. "Leave it to me!" She gathered up Rada's wedding dress and hurried toward her house. "Well, come on!" she called to them over her shoulder.

With surprising efficiency, Olivier found herself dressed as an Ishvalan bride. Vesya added to her outfit with a head covering of cream-colored fabric with a delicately embroidered edge, tied securely over her hair. Since she had no chuva, the striped sash worn by all Ishvalans who could claim legitimacy, Vesya found a length of fabric that she wrapped securely around Olivier's slender waist. She also supplied her with a pair of soft leather slippers.

"There!" she said, stepping back and admiring the effect. She met Olivier's gaze. "Nervous?"

"Uh...I don't know. I've never been nervous." Olivier was sure she felt something. It was a sense of anticipation, but not necessarily a pleasant one, like the thrill of an impending battle. It wasn't entirely unpleasant either. "Maybe?"

Vesya smiled. This was her territory, and this time it was Olivier who felt out of place. But the other woman's smile was kind and reassuring, which was a lot more than Olivier had ever offered her while she was at Briggs. "You'll do just fine!" Then Vesya's look turned a little mischievous. "Now, don't come out until it's time. Like Dejan would say, I have to set the stage!"

Olivier followed her to the front door, where a somewhat concerned Miles was waiting. When he saw her, he broke into a smile and she found herself blushing.

"You realize this will make us related," he said.

Olivier raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A bit distantly," she added.

Miles shrugged. "As far as Ishvalans are concerned, it's all family."

"I see." Olivier rather liked that idea.

"Now you two stay here," Vesya told them. "I'll give a wave of my hand, like this…" She raised her arm and rotated her hand at her wrist in a dance-like motion. "Then you come out. This is something folks used to do at fancy betrothal parties," she explained. "All the Ishvalans will understand, and your family will probably figure it out."

She strode through the front door and out into the courtyard, and then she began to sing in Ishvalan, moving toward the tables in a kind of slow dance step.

"Mother, mother, tell me,
Ai li, ai li, lei o lei li,
Has the first rooster crowed?
Ai li, ai li o,
Father, father, tell me,
Ai li, ai li, lei o lei li,
Is the morning come?
Ai li, ai li o!

Olivier stood waiting inside the doorway with a slight frown on her face. She had no idea what Vesya was singing or what exactly it was in aid of, but Miles was grinning. "What is she doing?"

Miles let out a quiet chuckle. "She's singing about a reluctant bride. Proper Ishvalan maidens aren't supposed to be too eager."

"Really?" Olivier muttered. "Does anybody actually fall for that?"

"It's traditional."

After some initial surprise at Vesya's interruption, there was a little ripple of laughter from the Ishvalans, who sounded like they had just gotten the punch line of a joke. Olivier ventured to peer around the edge of the doorframe and out into the courtyard, as though checking for possible enemy fire. She caught sight of Shua, who stood staring at Vesya, a look of surprise on his face. She could see his eyes flick past Vesya toward the house, and Olivier quickly ducked back inside, but not before she saw the pleased grin on his face.

As soon as Vesya had finished her verse, Dejan took up the tune on his lute and began to sing while Vesya continued with her strolling dance.

"Daughter, maiden daughter,
Ai li, ai li, lei o lei li,
The first rooster has crowed,
Ai li, ai li o!
Daughter, maiden daughter,
Put on your veil!
Ai li, ai li o!"

Vesya continued with the next verse.

"Mother, mother, tell me,
Ai li, ai li, lei o lei li,
Why must I go?
Ai li, ai li o!
Father, father, let me,
Ai li, ai li, lei o lei li,
Let me stay at home!
Ai li, ai li o!

As she sang the last couple of lines, Vesya turned slowly in her dance before the assembled guests. She raised her arm and turned her hand in time to the music.

Miles took Olivier by the elbow. "That's our cue," he muttered.

"For what?" Olivier hissed.

"Just walk out there. And look demure."

"Oh, screw that, Miles!"

Feeling a bit idiotic, Olivier let Miles escort her out into the courtyard, and there was a scattering of applause. Dejan began to sing the next verse, but Shua cut in. Whatever he was singing, it seemed fairly obvious that he meant it, and the way he kept his eyes on Olivier as she approached gave her goosebumps.

"Maiden, sweet maiden,
Ai li, ai li, lei o lei li,
I am waiting for you,
Ai li, ai li o,
Maiden, sweet maiden,
Ai li, ai li, lei o lei li,
Do not break my heart!
Ai li, ai li o!

Out of the corner of her eyes, Olivier glanced at her parents. Her father seemed a little bewildered, but her mother had apparently caught on and was smiling benignly. Catherine was practically bouncing with anticipation and Alex was blubbing.

As Shua's verse came to an end, he stepped up to Olivier and held out his hands. "You really had me going there, love!"

Olivier smiled and gave a shrug, slipping her hands into his. "I was assured it was traditional," she said. "Besides, an Armstrong never admits defeat."

Shua let out a laugh and pulled Olivier into his arms, lifting her off her feet and spinning around with her. She would have decked anyone else who dared such a thing, but she didn't mind so much this time. Neither did she mind when he set her back on her feet and kissed her. She probably could have done without the howls and the laughter and the clapping, but she'd let it go this time.

"Saahad!" Shua called to Bozidar, who had been sitting and chatting with Aunt Zulema. "Do you have a few minutes?"

Bozidar rose to his feet. "I am at your service," he replied. "For want of other occupation, I was waiting for the arrival of Andakar's newborns, but that will come in Ishvala's good time. You two, I believe," he added with a slight twinkle in his eye, "have a more pressing need."

The wedding party made their way to the center of the courtyard. At some point, a fountain was planned for this spot, but for now, it was occupied by a pedestal of stone blocks. On top of the pedestal was a brass bowl with small chunks of incense, which Bozidar proceeded to light. As soon as the aromatic smoke began to rise from the bowl, the couples were led to their places. Shua stood between Dejan and Naisha, and Olivier was flanked by her parents, who had spent some time yesterday rehearsing for this event.

Bozidar began a chant and the ceremony began. Beginning at opposite sides, the bride and groom were led in a circle around the pedestal, their escorts' hands on their shoulders. Off to one side, the girls in Dejan's group began to sing quietly. They were to process around three times, and by the beginning of the second rotation, Olivier heard an odd noise at her right side. She looked down at her father and saw tears running down his cheeks and into his beard. He kept his chin up and rigid, but he couldn't help letting out a couple of little sobs. Normally, Olivier would have been horrified by such a sight, but she felt a sudden rush of affection.

"Father!" she whispered.

Phillip sniffed quietly. "I'm so very proud of you, my girl!"

Olivier patted the hand that rested on her shoulder. "Thank you, Father," she said softly. "I'm glad you're here."

The ceremony itself was simple. There wasn't much she had to do, other than repeat the vows as Bozidar translated them for her. They didn't sound entirely unreasonable, especially since Shua had to promise the same things. Bozidar concluded with what was probably something like 'you may kiss the bride," and Shua gathered her tightly in his arms and kissed her, and they might have stayed that way for a while, but Alex could no longer contain himself and he scooped them up in a beefy embrace.

"Sister!" he cried out tearfully. "Brother!"

"Alex!" Olivier snapped. "Put us down right now!" She might be feeling a bit more benevolent toward her family at the moment, but she had her limits.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The sun had gone down, but the party was still in full swing. Olivier was feeling rather mellow, mostly from the halmi, supplied by Shua, and the wine, supplied by her parents, but also from the realization that she'd not only gotten this ordeal over with, but it hadn't been all that bad. Even being paraded around perched on Shua's shoulder while the men sang something boisterous wasn't so bad.

Later in the evening, Scar emerged, bearing a newborn baby in each arm. The music, singing, and chattering had drowned out their first cries as they entered the world. A great fuss was made over them, and Olivier was just as glad to let them steal the spotlight. Babies were something other people did, but curiosity finally overcame her, and fortified by another glass of wine, Olivier sat down next to the new father.

"Congratulations," she felt obliged to say.

"You, too," Scar replied with a rare, if slight smile.

Olivier gazed out at the assembled guests and let out a sigh. "Dear God, I'm related to all these people now!" she remarked. "Well," she added, "not Mustang, thank God." She gave Scar a slight nudge with her shoulder. "I'm even related to you now."

Scar gave her a sidelong glance and nodded. "So you are."

"And now you're related to my family!" She let out a slightly tipsy snort of laughter. "I'd love to see you at our next family reunion. We can make fun of all my crazy relatives. Sorry. Our crazy relatives. Bring the kids! It'll be great!"

"I think I'll forgo that particular pleasure."

"Fine." Olivier shrugged and smiled. "At least I'll have a husband I can actually show off and my hideous cousins will stop asking me when I'm going to get married."

"I hope that isn't why you got married," Scar said sternly.

"Oh, lay off, will you?" Olivier grumbled. "I got married because…" She had to pause and think for a moment. "I got married because I met a man who had the strength, tenacity, and sheer balls to get through all my defenses, and he did it without making me feel...diminished," she concluded with mild surprise, as though the thought had only just occurred to her.

Scar laughed quietly and gave a nod of approval. "I suppose there are worse reasons."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"You threw that fight, didn't you?" Olivier asked.

Shua gave an unconcerned shrug as they walked down the corridors of Briggs toward the general's quarters. "Of course I did," he replied. "You told me not to embarrass you in front of your men. I made it as near a thing as I could, didn't I?"

Olivier gave a half smile. "I suppose."

"The men enjoyed our little exhibition, and you're still firmly established as the invincible commander of Fort Briggs." He grinned. "Everybody's happy." He looked at her as she walked beside him, and he reached to take her hand. "I certainly am," he said.

Olivier looked up at him. "Are you?"

Shua nodded. "Deliriously."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Aren't you?"

As of a few days ago, what Olivier would have described herself as was nervous. Not only was she going to spring the fact on her men that she had gotten married, she was going to be introducing her husband to them. She did not want to think about what sort of fantasies her men had about her. Buccaneer had once intimated (under duress) that many of them did. The man who finally was able to turn his fantasies into reality would have to be someone rather out of the ordinary. They had gazed upon him with awe and wonder when she revealed him, and she felt rather proud.

The sparring match had been Shua's idea, and Briggs practically shut down for a space of time. He fought at his flashy best, showing off the whole time but still putting up a formidable challenge. There was lots of clanging of steel against steel, a sound Olivier loved and didn't get to hear enough of. When it looked like Shua was finally getting the better of her, he gave her the briefest of openings, one that only she would have noticed, and she took it. He had won the respect of her men and, as he said, she had firmly retained her supremacy. The fact that he could have beaten her was a little scary and rather exciting.

"Yes, I rather think so," she replied.

Shua arched an eyebrow. "Oh, rather?"

Olivier lifted her shoulders with a little smirk. "I don't get delirious about anything."

"Well, then," Shua said, a thoughtful look on his face. "I must not be doing my job."

"Oh, you're doing just—hey!"

Shua bent down and slung Olivier over his shoulder, striding down the corridor toward her room. He gave a trio of astonished soldiers a salute as they passed. "Carry on, men!" he told them.

"Shua! Dammit! Put me down!"

"Quiet, woman!" he replied. "I'm about to make you deliriously happy."

Olivier struggled in his grip, trying not to giggle in front of the troops. "I'll divorce you!"

Shua swung the door of her room open and gave a wicked laugh. "Oh, I doubt that very much."