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1.
Near the beginning of their marriage Eugenides had invited her on one of his excursions, and Attolia had informed him she refused to sneak about like a rat in her own palace. Now she followed her husband through the gap between ceiling and tiles without protest, feet steady on the wooden boards that supported the decorative ceramic. They were returning from eavesdropping on one of her barons. The tiles were thin enough to allow the king and queen of Attolia to hear what their guests said in the rooms below. They were above a wing reserved for visiting nobility, and beneath them passed scraps of gossip.
Eugenides stopped as one of those scraps reached his ears, and Attolia barely caught herself from running into him, a mistake that would send them both falling through the fragile tiles and into the room. She glared, wondering what caught his attention.
“For a barbarian he looks so…”
“Handsome?” A giggle. Two girls, sharing a room. They must be the daughters of Baron Ithys--Rhode and Ione.
Attolia’s glare intensified, though even were her husband looking at her, he would not be able to see her expression in the faint light leaking through the tiles. What was so important about this?
“I thought he’d be sickly,” said Rhode, “since everyone keeps talking about his health. But he seems whole to me, even without his hand.”
Attolia blinked. They were talking about Eugenides.
“Who cares about his hand?” Ione asked, and sighed. “I’ve heard he takes baths with the guards sometimes. You don’t suppose there’s any way we could just…stumble in?”
They were talking about Eugenides.
In front of her he was shaking, and Attolia could feel herself beginning to do the same. How dare they talk about him--about her husband, their king--like this? She had half a mind to reappear in front of their doorway as soon as she was out of this damned ceiling.
Rhode laughed below them. “If only. You know he must be hiding something nice under those tunics, otherwise he couldn’t have fought off half the guard single-handedly.”
“Even if we managed to get a look, I think the queen might have our heads,” said Ione wistfully. Damned right, thought Attolia.
Eugenides started moving again. It wasn’t until they emerged in his chambers, him red-faced, her white with anger, that she realized he was shaking with repressed laughter and not indignation.
“They have no right to talk about you that way,” she sputtered when he laughed, at her this time.
“I thought it was sweet,” he said, “and not half as bad as what I’ve heard said about you.”
Attolia shook her head, still scowling. It wasn’t the same.
2.
The problem, Attolia realized after several days’ reflection on the incident, was that Eugenides had grown up, and somehow she had failed to notice.
When they had first met, he had been a boy. Of course he was more than that to her now; it hadn’t taken long before she learned to appreciate his catlike grace, the roguish air his scar lent him, how his eyes lit up when he wanted to smile but looked at her to share a private joke instead. But it had taken time for her to see him as a man and not a half-grown boy. She had assumed that without the benefit of love, the rest of the country saw him as a half-grown boy still.
Of course, it had been years since Eugenides had been a boy.
Age had brought its own natural improvements. He had taken to wearing a short beard as soon as he could grow it, and combined with his short braid and the scar on his cheek he looked like the sort of pirate romantic ballads were written about. Eugenides had grown taller--not as tall as Attolia, but the disparity was no longer so obvious. But perhaps the biggest difference was that he had stopped hiding. His tunics showed the muscles of his arms instead of billowing around them. When he sprawled on his throne he no longer looked like a printer’s apprentice but a jungle cat surveying its territory. Eugenides had proven that he was neither stupid nor incompetent, so what had before looked like laziness now just looked like confidence.
Still, Attolia decided, it never hurt to get a second opinion. And if this opinion helped her confirm a related theory, so much the better.
She summoned Costis one evening when she knew her husband had made sure he had time off. Phresine escorted him in, and at Attolia’s nod, shut the door behind them.
“Your Majesty?” Costis asked, beyond surprise by now.
Attolia nearly smiled. She had never been quite sure why Eugenides’s attention had landed on this man in particular; he was honorable and brave, but there were many honorable and brave men. Most of them wouldn’t punch their king. Perhaps it was the punching itself that did it. Eugenides always had an odd fondness for people who hurt him.
She almost regretted putting Costis in this position. “What do you think of the king?” she asked.
Attolia could see the emotions play out on his face. Confusion, honor wrestling with honesty, trying to wrap his mind around palace intrigues. He probably had the head for it, were he not in…extraordinary circumstances like this one.
“He is my king,” said Costis finally.
Attolia almost rolled her eyes. Instead, she took pity. “Not as your monarch, Costis,” she sighed. “Do you think he is handsome?”
She watched as his mouth dropped open and he turned very red. So that was one theory confirmed, then. It was almost funny, except for the boiling rage that appeared from nowhere as she realized just how loyal her guard was to her king.
“I…yes, Your Majesty?” Costis said, blushing furiously.
This shouldn’t be a problem, she told herself. Anyone with eyes could see Costis was half in love with the king; what did it matter if he thought Eugenides was attractive as well?
“I mean, not that I would--anyone would think so, Your Majesty,” Costis said hastily.
“Hmm,” said Attolia. She realized she was glaring daggers at him, and tried to soften her expression. “Thank you, Costis. You may go.”
He did. Attolia reminded herself that this was not a good reason to be glad that her husband’s favorite guard would soon be traveling to Medea.
3.
“The king looked very nice tonight, didn’t he?” Attolia asked as Aglaia combed her hair. She didn’t know why she was doing this to herself, except that she had always had a fascination with prodding her own bruises.
She could feel rather than see her attendants exchange glances around her. Attolia rarely made conversation with her attendants, and even more rarely spoke of the king. Usually she preferred to listen in silence. “He did, Your Majesty,” said Philona after a moment of silence.
“He always does,” said Anticleia. She and her sister Cleia were Attolia’s two newest attendants, and she did not catch the warning glance someone sent her before she added, “but his new tunic looked very nice tonight.”
“Oh?” said Attolia.
“He has nice shoulders,” said Anticleia, “Your Majesty.”
She nodded solemnly. I will not dismiss this girl because she flatters my husband to me, Attolia told herself. I will not.
4.
The guard who had burst into Eugenides’s bedroom didn’t seem to know where to look. On one hand he needed to ensure his monarchs weren't being assassinated; on the other, while Attolia had yanked the sheets up to cover her chest, Eugenides had not. The one concession to modesty he made was tucking the naked stump of his arm under the blankets.
“I didn’t realize Her Majesty was in here,” said the guard, eyes hovering somewhere over Eugenides’s left shoulder. Attolia had the feeling she could stand up now, stark naked, and he would still be distracted by her husband.
“She is,” said Eugenides.
“I thought I heard a scream,” said the guard.
“You did,” said Attolia, then, “if you hear any more, don’t come in.”
He shut the door. Attolia glared.
“Poor Nikandros,” said Eugenides. He collapsed back onto the bed, lips finding her neck again, somehow not half as satisfying as they had been a moment before. “He has to sit outside for hours after that, knowing what we’re up to.”
“He got a glimpse of you, so I don’t think he minds,” said Attolia sourly.
Eugenides laughed, perhaps at first mistaking it for an idle compliment, and then his hand stilled. He propped himself back up and looked at Attolia through loose strands of hair. “Are you jealous?” he asked, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “My dear, if I was jealous over everyone who looked at you for too long, I could never get anything done.”
“He was ogling you.”
“I don’t mind being ogled.”
Attolia glared at Eugenides now.
“I do mind being glared at, though,” he continued lightly. “I’d rather you ogled me instead.”
Attolia licked her lips. She was being ridiculous about this, she knew. But Eugenides was hers, was the first person who had ever truly been hers. Perhaps she would never stop being ridiculous where he was concerned, one way or another.
“I can do better than just looking,” Attolia said, and reached for him under the blankets.
5.
Attolia waited behind a decorative screen in the corner of the disused storage room. She wasn’t sure why; Eugenides had only told her to be there, and to stay hidden. Presumably there was a meeting he wanted her to be present for; those sorts of clandestine encounters always seemed to happen during feasts.
She didn’t have to wait long until two people entered. One she recognized as Eugenides; his footsteps, nearly silent without trying, were unmistakable. Judging by the swishing of skirts, the second was a woman.
Behind the screen, Attolia stiffened. He wanted me to be here, she told herself.
“No one will find us here,” said the woman. Attolia placed her voice as Iphis, the daughter of a minor baron. “My cousins and I would play pretend in this room when our fathers visited the palace. I think we might have been the only ones who bothered to use it.”
“Not quite,” said Eugenides. Attolia rolled her eyes at the barely-concealed smugness. She could do without the reminders of how easily he had infiltrated her palace before he lived in it. “Why did you need to speak to me here?”
“I…” her voice caught. “I have some…delicate matters. And I didn’t know who among your attendants could be trusted.”
“Ah,” said Eugenides. “Would one of the delicate matters be your offer to be my mistress?”
Attolia blinked once, then twice, freezing in place so that her body didn’t start tearing the room to shreds without her permission.
“Unfortunately, my wife has made very clear that if I took a mistress she would be forced to cut my other hand off,” said Eugenides, “and I’m rather fond of the one I have left.”
Attolia heard footsteps again, the rustle of clothing. Her hands clenched into fists. “She keeps you trapped here,” Iphis said, voice soft. Oh, very good, said the part of Attolia that had honed her acting skills over the years. “You may put on a good face now, but I remember how unhappy you were when you first arrived. Do you expect me to believe that has gone away?”
“So thoughtful of you,” Eugenides said, practically purring. “If only you were as good at hiding your mothers’ letters as you are at acting.”
“I don’t know what you--”
“The letters, Iphis. The ones where she all but tells you outright to use me to ferret out other barons’ secrets. The ones you hide in the compartment under the wardrobe whenever you visit. I admit I’m impressed; I knew she was the ambitious one in your family, but setting your sights on me is a bold move indeed. Unfortunately, it was doomed from its conception.” Attolia heard the creaking of hinges. “You’re looking awfully pale, my lady. I would recommend you return to your rooms instead of the feast.”
Attolia waited until the girl left before she emerged from behind the screen, and found Eugenides sitting on an old trunk, legs crossed at the ankle. “Why did you want me to hear this?” she demanded. What was he trying to prove? That he could have someone else, if he wanted? Attolia knew that, had known for a long time.
Eugenides shrugged. “You have nothing to worry about, Irene,” he said. “I thought you should know.”
“I don’t worry,” Attolia snapped, and strode from the room.
+1.
“I don’t know why it bothers you so much,” Eugenides said later that night. He had come to her chambers this time.
“I don’t know why it doesn’t bother you,” Attolia snapped. She had sent her attendants away, and she tugged on her nightgown roughly, not looking at him where he sat on the floor by her bed. “They shouldn’t treat you as though you’re for sale.”
“No one does,” said Eugenides patiently, then reconsidered. “At least, no one who isn’t also trying to buy me off the old-fashioned way. They’re just treating me like any other man.”
Attolia whirled, every cell of her body protesting the thought. “They shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” He shrugged, but his voice wasn't quite casual when he added, “It’s better than being treated like a cripple or an outcast.”
Attolia froze, and as always almost happened when Eugenides brought that up, the fight left her.
For all her life, Attolia had known she was beautiful. She was used to men looking her over, evaluating her for it like a horse at the market. Some of that had lessened when she had taken the throne; some had lessened when she married Eugenides. But she had never had cause to doubt her looks, at least.
It wasn’t until she looked at the man sitting sheepishly beside her bed that she realized the same was not always true for him.
“I…” she began, and then knelt on the floor next to him. “You’re very handsome, Eugenides.”
He propped his chin in his hand, eyes glinting. “Is that so?”
“And I’m…glad…that others can recognize that,” said Attolia, forcing the words out from between her teeth. “But you are my husband, and their king, and they should show some respect.”
“Would it help if I promised that I would never take a mistress, even if you didn’t threaten to cut my other hand off?” Eugenides offered.
It did. She dropped her head and let it rest on his shoulder.
“What about Costis?” she asked after a moment.
“What about him?”
“He’s a man, so he wouldn’t be a mistress.”
Eugenides laughed. “You’re right. He could just be my lover, and then you couldn’t be angry with either of us.”
“Gen.” Attolia punched his side, not hard enough to hurt.
“Irene,” he mimicked, and stood. “Let’s go to bed.”