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It was when the inkwell lay dented and dripping on the floor, the smear of ink it had left on the wall after impact still oozing slightly, when bridegroom and bride stood across the room from each other, sharp words still ringing in the air between them, evidence of a mutual attack that had hit its respective target while failing to achieve its aims; it was when this stalemate had hung, heavy but fragile, for the space of seven slow, even breaths, that Eugenides said:
“Well.”
The Queen of Attolia drew on her impressive stock of years-forged self-control as she arched a single eyebrow. “Well, what?”
Surely she had made it clear enough by now that halving her Guard was an outrageous idea, that her new husband’s promise—boast—to take down the baron Erondites in six months was obnoxious arrogance bordering on lunacy, and that, furthermore, any new argument or barb to slip from his viper’s mouth was liable to earn him another inkwell aimed at his head. One that, this time, would not miss its mark.
“Well,” Eugenides repeated. “I can see we’re not going to make any progress down this particular avenue, at least not tonight.” His expression was impossible to read as he took one small step towards her.
In the grip of some thoughtless instinct, she stepped back.
Something flickered in his eyes then, and he said lightly, “If you’d prefer, My Queen, we can postpone the… usual wedding night activities to a later date.”
She blinked at him, thoughts suddenly off-kilter. That had not been what she’d expected him to say.
He watched her contorted expression carefully. “I understand that you’re not in the mood, and—”
“No,” she said, then cursed herself for how quick and sharp the word had come out, once she had fully processed his meaning. She smoothed her face back into its habitual mask. “There are already those who seek to undermine the validity of this marriage. We can hardly afford to provide them ammunition for their gossip.”
His expression, mercurial as ever, shifted again. Still impossible to know what he was thinking.
“No one will know the truth but us,” he commented neutrally.
“You underestimate the skills of observation possessed by those around us… particularly my attendants.”
He was still silent, waiting. She was baited into speaking further. “And all that aside, there’s no reason to delay.” No traitorous flush spread across her cheeks, though she kept it at bay by sheer force of will.
He watched her for a moment longer, then his lips twitched into a not-quite smile, and he stepped towards her once more. She didn’t move away. “So,” he said, “we must… do the deed, then.” In his voice, she could hear the hint of what could only be described as a smirk.
Expression fixed in perfect stillness, it was she who advanced across the rug to stand before him, closer than decorum allowed. He drew a breath.
“Getting cold feet, Eugenides?” she asked coolly. She lifted her hand to his cheek and he gave the faintest shudder at her touch.
“Never, My Queen.” His voice was low, and soft, but she heard the faint hoarseness that betrayed his nerves, as her heartbeat did hers.
The argument, the smashed inkpot, these could be forgotten where they lay.
“Well, then,” the queen said in a soft, measured voice. “We must get on with ‘doing the deed’ as you so aptly put it.”
For once, Eugenides had nothing to say. He only put his arms around her waist, and kissed her.
Later, as they lay quietly together on the great bed, she stroked the stump of his right arm with the gentlest of touches, and when she bent her neck to kiss it she found tears dripping from her face onto his skin.
“Irene…”
She’d thought him asleep, and drew in an uncertain breath, but he rolled onto his side to face her, and used his left hand to softly brush her tears away.
“There,” he said, as her crying slowed, but there was something in his voice, and when she brought her own hands to his face she felt the wetness of tears to match her own.
She brushed at the tear tracks with her fingertips and then leaned in to kiss them away, and all the while his missing right hand lay between them, insurmountable, and she wished—but she could not take away his pain, nor the fact of what she had done to him. As she tasted the salt of his tears on her lips, she felt that his thoughts must be mirroring her own.
He said, softly, “You have stolen something from me, My Queen.”
His tears burned her lips like the memory of poison. But she bore it willingly, this deserved pain.
“I know,” she said, and for once her voice was not cool, but aching with her guilt and her grief.
He was silent a moment. In the dark it was impossible to read his face. Then he said, “I think you misunderstood me.” He slid the stump of his right arm under her waist and tugged her tight against him. Then he kissed her, and she could feel that his lips were smiling.
Voice dripping with a mix of boyish mischief and exaggerated drama, he whispered: “The thing you’ve stolen… is my innocence.”
She could not prevent the snort that escaped her.
“Eugenides, you of all people can hardly be considered an innocent.”
The tight knot of guilt in her chest loosened, just a little, as he pulled back, affronted.
“I am too! Or rather—” She could sense his smirk “—I was… until you had your way with me earlier.”
“Poor you,” she said, with absolutely no sympathy.
“Well, I’m certainly not complaining,” he said glibly. “I just thought you should know what a thief you are.”
“Not thief enough to compete with you. Besides, as I was stealing your innocence, so you were stealing mine.” The queen’s mouth twisted. “As it were.” She had not thought to use the word “innocence” in conjunction with herself. Not with the blood on her hands.
As if reading her mind, the Thief raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, one fingerprint at a time.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words unfamiliar in her mouth.
“Don’t apologize.” He moved to kiss her again, but she stilled him.
“No. I am sorry… for throwing that inkwell at your head.”
Immediately his glib tone returned. “As well you should be!”
But she could see through his postured affront.
“You were testing your luck,” she informed him severely.
“I know.” This new meekness in his tone was as much an act as the affront, she was sure. But she found, to her surprise, that it didn’t irritate her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said.
“Oh?” The studied disinterest of his voice could not conceal the way his body tensed slightly in anticipation.
“About the Guard. You may halve it… if you can convince Teleus to agree to your proposal.”
“Teleus? But you know he can’t stand me,” he whined. But as she carded her fingers lazily through his short hair, he softened into her embrace and grumbled, “As you wish, My Queen.”
“Now sleep,” she said, kissing him lightly on the forehead. And before he could protest: “You will surely need all your strength if you are to dismantle the House of Erondites before half a year is up.”
She could sense the stiffening of his shoulders in surprise again, at receiving her blessing, and then his contentment as he settled into her arms.
“Very well,” he murmured into the crook of her neck, and the queen smiled.
Things might not have begun well between them—they never had and probably never would—but Attolia believed the ending, at least, was sure to be better.