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She was absolutely going to marry that girl eventually. She was certain of it. Ianthe let out a mournful little sound, almost a moan, and buried her face in her pillow, inhaling the neutral, inoffensive scent of clean fabric. How fucking pathetic, pining over a stubborn, grouchy little nunlet comprised of nothing but black fabric and bone. Sometimes Ianthe found herself doubting whether Harrowhark even had flesh, given her commitment to concealing nearly all of it constantly.
Hell, a glimpse of an arm would probably be enough for Ianthe to swoon like she was a repressed, prudish nun herself. She was a gifted flesh magician, for fuck’s sake, more than used to viewing the human body as mere fuel when she had a goal in mind, as she did now. There was no time to sit around fantasizing about undoing Harrow’s bone corset, or letting layers upon layers upon layers of baggy black Ninth robes pool on the floor of her rooms.
Best not to think about the fact that Babs was getting some in this awful place and she wasn’t. He thought, somehow, that she didn’t know about his tryst with Sextus. The only thing more idiotic than that would be if he tried to sleep with the enemy again.
Harrow, she thought, might be onto her, if she wasn’t so overwhelmingly focused on herself. Ianthe, for all her attempts to keep tabs on the Ninth, saw her more rarely than she’d prefer, but monitoring other houses’ progress couldn’t be allowed to get in the way of her own. As always, Ianthe had been forced to take the hard road. Reverse-engineering theorems while continuing the act she’d mastered barely out of the cradle—concealing Corona’s dirty little secret.
Harrow might know a thing or two about keeping elaborate lies going herself, she thought, curling deeper under the thick blankets and stretching languorously. If she tried to keep the ruse going even after their marriage was arranged, Ianthe would have no choice to confront her about it.
She’d press a hand to a dark, cold Ninth wall, backing Harrow up against it until she was close enough to see the shine of her own reflection in those black eyes. She’d lean in then, compensating for their height difference, and allow herself a moment of gazing at black-painted lips before speaking. Harrow would definitely be protesting the intrusion into her space by then, maybe already at work summoning bony hands to drag Ianthe away, but she wouldn’t give in.
“What are you hiding, Nonagesimus?” she imagined herself asking. “You can’t possibly believe I’m thick enough to think this place is normal.” Or maybe, “What is the deal with your cavalier?” Maybe many more questions than that, as she imagined that after five years entirely closed even to pilgrimages, the Ninth House was holding a number of secrets.
Harrow would argue against telling her, but in the heady confines of her imagination, wouldn’t bother pushing her away with a skeleton construct. Restrain her, maybe, flipping their positions so that Ianthe was up against the wall instead, frigid stone chilling her through her clothes. The phalanges around her wrists would be cold too, clenching tighter whenever she offered a smirk or an unappreciated retort. Flexing little notice boards of Harrow’s emotions, perfectly crafted to allow her a way into her rib cage.
Metaphorically, mostly. Though, on a literal level, Ianthe couldn’t say it sounded half bad to be wrist deep in Harrow’s organs, holding what kept her alive in the palm of her hand while she kissed her. Her shock would be visible through the thick layer of face paint in the instant before Ianthe closed her back up, and that look would be one to savor as long as she lived. Maybe, if she convinced her it was part of a traditional Third wedding, she’d be allowed to take a bite.
Ianthe’s fingers twitched, grasping mindlessly at the sheets she and Corona shared. It wouldn’t do to get too excited over one of her competitors. A few hours of rest was plenty. While she fantasized, others were working, and there was no way she was going to let anyone become a Lyctor before her.
Besides, she knew Harrow was just as obsessed with power as she was, not so deep down. What better way to impress a future bride?
It was time to get back to work.