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They’d had a fight.
It was a brief one, something about Mabel trying to throw herself in front of all of Anna’s problems, and had ended with the girl half burning storming out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Anna doesn’t see her all day, not in the kitchen, perched on the counter, and not in the parlor, sitting strangely in an armchair. So Anna waits. And waits. And waits.
And then, suddenly, it’s night-- or what passes as such in this place-- so she pads into the room they share, with the rickety twin bed they both manage to sleep on. Mabel is curled against the footboard. She’s pressed herself tight against it, knees up against her chest and back pressed so close to the wood that Anna is sure it will leave marks.
“Mabel?” Anna murmurs, going to touch her shoulder, and Mabel rocks herself away from her, hiding her face behind one of her arms, all tense muscles and held-on breath. “Mabel?”
It’s not so much a flinch, Anna realizes, as it is a delayed reaction. She sits down carefully on the other side of the bed. “What’s going on?”
Mabel hums, off-key and strained, and Anna lies down to face her, waits until she shifts so one of her eyes is visible behind her arms. She steals a glimpse at Anna’s face and hides again.
“Are you still mad at me?”
Mabel keens (is that the right word? Anna’s always at a loss, with her enigma of a girl), shaking her head almost violently. “Okay, well, is it something I did?”
“No,” Mabel mutters, hands tightening in her hair as she pulls at it. “No, no, no, no.”
“Okay,” Anna says, trying a different tactic. “Do you want me to leave you alone for a little bit?”
Mabel rocks herself again.
“I’ll take that as a no, too.” Anna sighs, settling into her position, and waits for Mabel to speak.
“You’re the king.”
“Yes,” Anna says, confused but not quite surprised-- most of Mabel’s conversations started with something unrelated.
“I’m the consort.”
“I know, Mabel. I chose you.”
“Yes, but--” Mabel makes a noise of frustration, pulling at her hair again, and Anna reaches out her left hand. Mabel takes it, squeezing it so tight Anna’s sure her nails will leave angry marks on Anna’s skin, but she doesn’t really mind. “You are-- this is-- I am not trapped, Anna, and I am not your pet-- Veratrine was wrong about that, always has been, always will be.”
“I’m glad you know that,” Anna responds. “I would kill Veratrine if she ever said that again, you know.”
“Not if I get her first,” Mabel says dryly, half a smirk playing at her lips. “But-- despite this knowledge, you are still the king and I am still the consort. And I-- we fought. And I was wrong. And you, as King, have rights to do as you see fit. Mistakes are not easily forgiven in the Underhill. You know that.”
“We’re not in the Underhill,” Anna replies. “We’re in the haunted house. And--” at this she smiles-- “hearing you admit that I was right about something is enough miracles for one day.”
Mabel laughs and Anna moves closer to her, catching her steadily when she throws herself into Anna’s grip, burying her face in her chest. Anna wraps one arm around Mabel’s neck, hand in her hair, and the other around her torso, letting her shake for a few moments as the laughter goes half into tears.
“I was Wrong,” Mabel says, stressing her syllables. “I did not mean to-- upset you, Saint Anna. I didn't mean to make you angry. I’m your consort, so this is-- this is--”
“Mabel,” Anna says softly, “we have fights all the time. We get into stressful situations, and we work them out. That’s-- that’s just what being in a relationship is, it’s healthy.”
She hides her face again, hands gripping tightly to Anna’s shoulder and around Anna’s chest. “Well, I-- didn’t-- mean to.”
“I know you didn’t. Hey, look at me?”
Mabel looks up balefully and Anna can’t stop herself from laughing.
“You look so angry-- I just wanted to say that I love you.”
Mabel hides a smile and squeezes Anna into a hug again, and Anna presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “I think we should resolve all of our fights like this.”
“Talking about how I inherently believe that my mistakes are sinful to you, Saint Anna?”
“No, cuddling in your mother’s old room during the witching hour.”
“Oh. Yes. That I wouldn’t mind.”