Note: So this year sucks, but I did get some writing done? Stay safe out there, friends!

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Six weeks in a foreign country, how the time flew

- from "Destiny Rules" by Fleetwood Mac

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There is no warning.

Alek, Lieutenant Ackermann, and Captain Wells have entered the small waiting lounge, which - being meant for the occasional royal visitor - is fitted out quite as nicely as King Edward's airship.

Captain Wells is saying, "I shall check on your ship's progress, Your Majesty," while Alek is pondering whether or not it would tarnish his imperial dignity to sleep on the divan, and Ackermann is closing the door behind them.

Not fast enough to keep out the assassins.

Both men, both dressed like the ground crew, both armed. They slam the door open, compressed-air pistols drawn.

One of them immediately shoots Ackermann in the stomach; he grunts and crumples against the wall behind him. The other shoots Captain Wells, who is reaching for his own weapon. The shot takes the captain high - in the shoulder, in the head, Alek can't see. The old man drops to the floor and doesn't move.

Alek has a second, perhaps less, before the assassins turn their pistols to him. They mean to kill him, of that he's certain.

It's a perfect, clockwork piece of planning: They've removed the trained military men from the equation at the first. Now they may dispatch the young, untried emperor at their leisure.

He doesn't have his sword, or the knife he normally wears concealed in his overcoat's lapel, or even the small pistol that Volger and Ackermann recommended he carry on his person at all times. Two of those weapons are in his luggage aboard the Bacchante, and the third is presumably still at Buckingham Palace.

He has a second, perhaps less. In that second, it all becomes clear:

There was no telegram from Volger. There is no uprising in Hungary. This has all been a ruse, and he has jumped straight into it, so distracted by a wayward British girl in trousers that he couldn't perceive a coup d'etat.

Well. At least he will die knowing the truth.

He wishes he had time to pray properly.

Still on the floor, Ackermann suddenly lifts his arm. There's a gunshot, a real one, and one of the assassins reels back, pistol falling from lifeless fingers, head a bloody mess. He's dead before he hits the ground.

The remaining assassin shoots Ackermann again. The bodyguard cries out and slumps.

Alek moves forward - to do what, he hasn't the slightest notion - but the assassin swings his pistol back, and Alek arrests the motion.

Stupid. He's going to die anyway; what does it matter? But he draws himself up, squares his shoulders, clenches his fists.

"Enjoy hell, Your Majesty," the assassin says in German. His finger tightens on the trigger, but just as it does, something strikes his temple and he jerks his arm up with a cry of pain and the shot goes hopelessly wide.

Alek flinches and is instantly ashamed for doing so.

And then a wayward British girl in trousers barrels into the man, shoulder first, knocking him down, falling with him, punching at his face as he tries to punch at hers, yelling, "Someone bloody shoot him!"

Alek can't. He doesn't have a pistol, and besides, he'd hit Deryn.

Instead he rushes over and kicks the man in the head as the wrestling match continues. That appears to do the trick; the assassin goes limp.

Deryn scrambles up, grabbing for an object on the floor as she does so. A knife, Alek sees as she returns it to her boot. She must have thrown it at the assassin.

"Are you hurt?" she asks him.

"No, but Ackermann - and Captain Wells -"

Deryn looks over at the motionless Wells, grief crackling across her face, then crouches to see to Ackermann, whose chest is rising and falling in ragged intervals. "Aye, you alive then, lad?"

Alek also crouches beside his bodyguard, gently shaking his shoulder, and says in German, "Johann! Can you speak?"

Ackermann groans and grasps Alek's wrist. "Sir, you must leave," he says in English, half-gasping the words. Blood flecks his lips. "There may be more."

"He's right," Deryn says. She and Ackermann have a brief, silent conversation with their eyes. Then she stands, retrieving the assassins' fallen pistols and tucking one of them - most unsafely - in the back waistband of her trousers. The other she hands to Ackerman. "Come on, Your Majesty."

"Keep him safe," Ackermann tells her. He coughs and groans. More blood.

"Aye sir," she says, though they are both lieutenants.

And then Deryn's hand clamps like iron over Alek's wrist, and she is tugging him forward, and they are running into the chill, grey spring rain of Calais, running away from the outcry rising in the hangar and across the airfield, running away from potential assassins, running until his lungs burn and his legs ache and they slow at last.

By then they are in a street with houses on one side and shops on the other. This part of the city has begun its day; they dodge a few carts drawn by Darwinist beasts, a few workingmen out on errands. Everyone is hurrying through the rain. No one spares them much of a glance.

"This way," Deryn says, and pulls him down an alley behind the row of houses. The alley is completely deserted, which is good because Deryn tries every back-garden gate.

"What are you doing?" Alek asks.

"Looking for a place to - oi, here's one." The gate opens under her hand, and they duck inside. She shuts it quickly, looks around the walled space, and says, "The shed. Brilliant!"

Which is how His Imperial and Apostolic Majesty Aleksandar finds himself stuffed inside a small, dirty garden shed, trying to make sense of the senseless events unfolding today.

"We ought to be safe in here," Deryn says, keeping her voice low. "Now - who's trying to kill you?"

Alek lets out a difficult breath, suddenly grateful for the dim light. There is only one window in the shed, and it's a pitiful, begrimed thing. "My ministers."

"Blisters, are you sure?"

He nods. "The telegraph came from my Prime Minister's office, but anyone could have sent it. Volger is in danger as well. Most likely he's already been forced to leave Vienna."

There's a moment of silence, and then Deryn says, softly, "Are you sure?"

He squeezes his eyes shut against the dull fire of doubt that springs up in his chest. "Yes," he says, voice full of imperial steel. "I trust him with my life."

"Aye, all right," she says, audibly dubious. But she moves on: "What's next?"

"I have to get to Vienna - immediately, if not sooner. But I must assume that any official channels are part of the conspiracy." He takes another difficult breath, overwhelmed by déjà vu and the absence of his loyal House Guards. The absence of Volger. This was a tricky enough proposition when he was fifteen and merely fleeing to Switzerland. Now… "I shall have to do it secretly."

Deryn strips off her sodden Air Service jacket, thrusting it at him with a brisk, "Hold this, then," before donning a stained flat cap and an even filthier apron that someone has left in the shed.

"What are you doing?" Alek asks. Again. Although it is a bit of a comfort, he supposes, that one of them has any idea of what do next. He hasn't.

"D'you know about Bonnie Prince Charlie?" she asks. She rolls up her shirtsleeves and smudges some dirt on her face.

He knows every head of every royal house in Europe, all the elected heads of state, and the most important members of various governments and nobilities. He folds her jacket over his arm. "Ah - not really, no."

"Tried to take the British throne and lost, the ninny. One of my aunties is always blethering on about him." She cracks open the shed door and peers out, then flashes him a broad grin. "Stay put, Your Majesty. I'm off to fetch you a disguise."

And then she is gone, and he is quite alone.

He listens for a long minute, straining to hear sounds of alarm or danger. More gunshots, perhaps. Shouts. Running. But aside from the rain drumming unevenly on the roof of the shed, there is nothing.

Alek lets out a breath and looks around the shed. The the walls have shelves crammed with rusty tools, holey buckets, broken pots, ripped gloves. A large burlap bag of fertilizer occupies most of the floor space.

Nothing, in other words, that could aide him in escape.

He still has Deryn's jacket on his arm. He carefully lays it atop the cleanest-looking section of clutter, then checks the pockets of his own jacket.

Emperors do not, as a rule, carry money. They haven't any need for cash at hand; even if they cannot purchase something on credit, there are always people with them who can handle any such transactions.

He expects his pockets to be empty, and they are.

He sighs. Having done this before, one might assume he'd be better prepared. He hears Volger's lecture already.

Eventually, he tires of standing, and extracts the sturdiest-looking of the buckets, flipping it over and sitting - cautiously - on the bottom.

Alek does have a pocketwatch. He consults it. Puts it away. Leans his head against one of the shelves and closes his eyes.

It occurs to him that Deryn might have been captured.

She may have been killed.

She may have abandoned him.

For some absurd reason, that last possibility seems the worst of all. Cold doubt clutches at his chest. She wouldn't, he tells himself. She's a soldier, and Ackermann gave her clear orders.

Former soldier. Never in his military.

Though it must be said: he did offer.

He tries to stay awake, but succeeds only in limiting himself to a half-doze as he waits for her to return. He should have some excuse ready, should the occupants of house venture out to their garden shed - unlikely as that might be, given the weather. It seems too much effort.

Exhaustion is a physical weight. He can feel himself being ground down beneath it, ever smaller, ever more helpless.

He hopes Ackermann is still alive. Captain Wells, too. Darwinist doctors are quite good with such wounds; if the men were taken to hospital immediately…

The shed's door creaks open, and Deryn shoves a bundle of cloth inside. "Put those on," she says in a rather loud whisper. "I've one more thing to fetch, then I'll be back to help if you need it."

Gone again, before Alek can do more than blink.

So. Neither captured, killed, nor a deserter.

Buoyed, he retrieves the bundle and unties the knot holding it closed. If he hadn't known about her Air Service background, the knot would have communicated it: deft, tight, as well-constructed as a knot can be, and yet easily undone.

The cloth is a large, triangular shawl with a garish paisley print. Inside is a shirtwaist that used to be white and is now the same color as the rain; a long skirt that used to be black and is now faded to dark blue-gray; and a straw hat that has been sadly mashed.

Women's clothes, all of them.

Does she actually mean for him to wear women's clothes? God's wounds, she probably does. After all, she wears men's clothes with some regularity.

And looks quite good in them, but that's beside the point.

It's a brilliant plan, now that he thinks about it. The assassins will be looking for an emperor and an officer - two men of rank and distinction. Not a dirty young man and an impoverished young woman. On balance, however, he'd rather play the part of the dirty young man.

How badly does he want to escape this trap and retake his empire?

Very badly, he decides.

Accordingly, he sheds his jacket and braces and unbuttons his shirt, adding to the stack he'd begun with Deryn's jacket. He pulls on the woman's shirtwaist over his vest; it's not too dissimilar from his own shirt, except the fit is laughably poor and the pitiful bit of lace around the high neck is itchy.

That done, he retrieves the skirt and holds it up to the weak light, trying to determine how it's to be worn. Contrary, perhaps, to the expectations that might be held of a young emperor, he has no experience with the workings of womens' clothes. He's spent every moment since his accession to the throne trying to preserve it; he's had no time for courtship, let alone assignations.

He hasn't solved the mystery before Deryn returns, this time with a carpetbag in her arms. She pulls the door shut behind her, and the two of them are once again crowded into the tiny space.

"Blisters," she says. "What's taking you?"

His eyebrow lifts of its own accord. "Not all of us are accomplished cross-dressers."

She snorts. "Take off your trousers and I'll help you with the skirt."

It's a startling statement, so he thinks he can be forgiven the expression on his face. "Pardon?"

"I've seen boys in their knickers," she informs him, smirking. "Never an emperor's knickers, but I don't reckon they'll shock me."

"No - I - why am I to remove my trousers?"

She steps over the bag of fertilizer and balances nimbly, one foot on the bucket, one on the floor. The position brings her so close that she is practically standing on his shoes. "It won't fit right with them on, aye?"

"I see," he says. You want to escape and avenge yourself, he thinks sternly, and with that admonition, he is able to unfasten his trousers without betraying himself with anything so cliche as shaking fingers. To distract both of them, he asks, "You mentioned Prince… Charlie? What is he to do with this situation?"

"Bonnie Prince Charlie, aye." She arranges the skirt in her hands. "The English tried to capture him after he lost. But he escaped to the Isle of Skye - there's a whole bloody song about it. Anyway, it was Flora MacDonald who saved him."

He has to remove his shoes before he can remove his trousers. Deryn puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He's ashamed to note that, despite everything, her touch still feels electrikal. "And how did she do that?"

"Dressed him as her maid," she says. She grins, abruptly mischievous. "So you're part of a grand tradition now, hm, Your Majesty?"

"It does make one feel better," he says, dry. The trousers finally come free, and before he can feel too bashful about standing in, as she put it, his knickers, she's holding out the skirt and helping him step into it, then turning him around to do up the back.

That accomplished, she drapes the shawl over his head and knots it beneath his chin, then puts the hat atop the shawl and adjusts the angle just so. "There we are. D'you know how to pack a bag?"

Many aristocrats of lesser rank do not, but Alek's formative years were unusual. "I do."

"Brilliant," she says. "Get our clothes into that bag while I change, then."

It's only then that he notices the second bundle of clothes lying behind her, with the carpetbag. "Ah. Because they're looking for two men."

"Not two working girls taking the Paris train on holiday," Deryn confirms.

It's impossible for him to turn his back while she changes, but he does try not to look. He truly does. He feigns total absorption in folding and packing their men's clothes, because to acknowledge that he has seen that flash of long, bare leg would mean he has to acknowledge his reaction to it. God's wounds, he is carrying enough guilt already; he needn't add to it by leering at his makeshift bodyguard while she's trying to save his life.

A girl again, Deryn ties off her shawl and leans over to inspect his work. "That's well done."

There's no reason to explain, but he wants to. "I spent the better part of four years in a castle atop a glacier with only two Household Guards, a mechanic, and my fencing tutor. I daresay I'm more accomplished at menial tasks than any emperor has been or shall be."

She doesn't grin, as he expected her to; instead she regards him with a steady, careful gaze, as if she can see deeper than the surface. "No," she says quietly, after a long moment. "Just more human."

He lets his wry retort die unspoken. It is rather too solemn a moment for humor. Instead, he holds out his hand. "Thank you," he says.

She takes his hand and squeezes it tightly. The reassurance is badly needed, especially as she collects the valise and opens the garden shed door. It's time for them to resume their flight.

The rain has not slackened, and he finds himself grateful for the hat and shawl. Alek also quickly finds that skirts are more difficult to walk in than he expected. They swish most disconcertingly around his legs.

They gain the alley without incident. Deryn sets a course, walking with deliberately moderate speed - a headlong rush would only draw suspicion. "Now comes the tricky part, aye?"

"Reaching the train undetected?"

"Teaching you to be a girl."

There follows an unending stream of instructions: how to hold his shoulders, how to move his hips, the importance of looking at the ground just in front of him rather than gazing straight ahead. Use a soft voice. Ask, don't tell. He is to be small. Unnoticed.

And indeed, when Deryn demonstrates, she seems to shrink inward. She becomes nondescript. A poor girl with an ugly carpetbag, trudging toward the train station on a long-awaited holiday.

Alek mostly feels like a Darwinist airbeast stuffed into a skirt.

"More side-to-side," Deryn says, critiquing his walk. "And smaller steps."

"Gott im Himmel," Alek says under his breath as they turn onto a larger road. This is impossible. "I see why you prefer trousers."

"Aye, being a boy is pure dead easy." She moves closer and loops one arm through his. It's an informal gesture, the kind of thing two friends might do. It also, he realizes, does a great deal to hide his inability to walk like a girl. "Let me do all the talking," she adds.

"Do you speak French?" he asks, unable to hide his surprise.

"Bien sur que oui," she says, and continues on in that language: "And I don't sound like an emperor when I speak it, either."

He's offended - but she does have a point. His French is meant for state addresses. Formal greetings. Diplomatic conversations. Meanwhile, her accent is Parisian, and excellent.

"How did you learn?" he asks, also in French. There are more people around now, hurrying about on business, chatting beneath shop awnings, leading fabricated beats and their wagons through the puddles and muck of the streets; it seems prudent to abandon English for the time being.

"The Air Service," she says, shrugging with one shoulder. "That's also where I learned Turkish. I didn't have time to pick up Japanese or Spanish beyond aeronautical terms and cursing, but those are the most useful words anyway."

"I suppose they are," he says. "In that case, I shall have to teach you to curse in German."

"Teach me all of it."

He pauses, causing her to stop as well. "I would be happy to. But why?"

Another shrug. She starts walking again, and tugs him along with her. "If I'm to be your military advisor, I should be able to understand what your soldiers are saying."

Joy clutches a tight fist inside his chest, setting his heart to racing. "Do you mean that?"

She leans in, close to his ear, as though they are two girls sharing secrets. In English, she whispers, "That's what I was coming to tell you, laddie. Before it all went pear-shaped. If you'll have me, I'm yours."

Her breath puts shivers down his spine.

Providence enjoys laughing at him, he decides. How else to explain the madness of the day?

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They buy tickets and board the train without incident. Deryn does all the talking.

The seats are little more than hard wooden benches, but it's not the physical discomfort that keeps Alek alert on the long ride to Paris. It's the fear that at any moment, he will be noticed for what he is. An imposter. A fraud. An emperor fleeing assassins sent by his own ministers.

He will have to get word to Volger. He will have to get to Volger.

But these are difficulties for a later time.

Now, he leans against Deryn's shoulder, and she leans against his, as the elephantines drawing the train plod onward through the rain-soaked country.

By the time they arrive in Paris some hours later, the rain has ceased, but the sky remains grey. Alek follows Deryn as she threads her way out of the Gare du Nord train station. She finds a cheap hotel and flirts gaily with the grumpy clerk until he begrudgingly agrees to lower the price for their room. After they trek up four narrow, dusty flights of stairs, she deposits Alek and the carpetbag and disappears to procure dinner.

The room is reasonably clean. Certainly better than the garden shed in Calais.

He removes his shoes and lays on the bed. There's only one. Of course he shall let her have it, but until she returns, he intends to enjoy it.

He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Prays for Ackermann and Captain Wells. Prays for Volger, while he's at it.

Prays for himself. For his empire.

For the wayward young woman in trousers - the only one that might save them all.

He's asleep before Deryn returns.