“What is that?” Edmond eyeing the pack of cards in your hands suspiciously. The box is black with metallic pink embossing, a love heart framed by a swirling border.

When you offer no immediate explanation, he takes one card from the deck between two gloved fingers and turns it over. On the card are images of people, one outlined in silver, the other in gold. And they appear to be...

“Are these dance steps?” Edmond murmurs, his voice lowering into thoughtful confusion. “Or physical exercises?”

He draws one more card to try and confirm his assumption, studying it with grave intensity, and then he lifts his eyes to yours.

“Are we to assume this position? Is that the purpose of this game?” he asks, entirely earnest. “It seems difficult, but not impossible.”

A beat passes. Then another.

And the exact moment it dawns on him, the colour drains from his face before rushing straight back up, entire face going red. He looks like a sundried tomato or a very enraged strawberry.

“You-” He stops, inhales sharply, and looks at the deck as if it has personally insulted him. “These are not exercises.”

Edmond snaps the card back toward the pile with a huff of offended dignity, though the damage is already done. “You are impossible,” Edmond mutters, cheeks still warm, voice tight with embarrassment. “You will dispose of them immediately.”