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Rumours spread like locusts through the palace after the Queen of Attolia’s political marriage. Speculation about the new king’s purportedly empty bed was a subject of particular relish to the gossip-mongers, and, although none would give speech to such vulgarity in the queen’s presence, Attolia was well aware of the rumours. She had ears for listening, after all, and where those ears could not reach, she had informants.
It amused her that, for once, the gossipers were not entirely wrong. For the king’s bed was indeed empty many nights—empty of the king himself.
The Thief made his way to her inner chambers in silence, always appearing after her attendants had departed with their covered lamps and soft footsteps. He was thoughtful enough to make his presence known with a soft noise—deliberately bumping his arm against the wall’s wooden panelling, or sliding a paperweight across her desk as he passed by—before he appeared, phantom-like, at the side of her bed, already dressed for sleep by his attendants, but with his hook still attached to the stump of his right arm.
Most nights, the first thing she did before even speaking was to gently and carefully remove the cuff from his forearm and lay it on the bedside table. It was a task he would not suffer his attendants to complete. And, of course, there was also the fact that he refused to wander through the palace unarmed, as it were—though she was sure he had a knife or two secreted somewhere on his person. She could understand his feelings all too well.
She knew that to him, to walk around with his stump exposed was equivalent to nakedness. That he let her see it laid bare was an act of vulnerability she treasured, even as it pained her.
After the hook was laid aside, they would sit together on the edge of the bed. Sometimes they talked for hours of politics and the madness of the court, and the lives they now led together and separately. Sometimes—though perhaps less often than those who knew them might expect—the talk turned to fierce argument. Sometimes they only sat in stillness. And sometimes Eugenides rested his head on her lap and she carded her fingers through his short curls and watched the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. And eventually, no matter how the night had begun, they ended up curled under the covers together. His right arm would slide under her waist and tug her closer, while his left hand reached up to find the tail end of her braid, pull loose the ribbon that bound it, and gently undo the work of her attendants earlier that evening, until her dark hair was fanned out over the pillow. This had become his ritual, and she had never questioned it—until…
“Eugenides,” she said late one night. “You have been stealing my hair ribbons.”
Eugenides affected an innocent look. “What, an accusation, at this hour?”
She was silent, waiting.
“They are only hair ribbons,” he offered, as both admission and excuse.
“Indeed, and only plain linen ones,” the queen said, not even blinking at his deflection. “What makes them worth the effort of thievery?”
“Old habits are hard to break?” Eugenides suggested. His fingers continued to comb idly through her hair, but she refused to be lulled by his caresses.
“Surely you have not been dedicating mere hair ribbons at the altar of your god.”
“My god doesn’t judge the value of a thing in the same way we mortals do,” he said with exaggerated piety.
“Oh? And yet, surely your god is not incapable of boredom. How many hair ribbons can you dedicate at his altar before he grows tired of them? You must have surpassed dozens by now.”
“Well, as a matter of fact… I haven’t been dedicating them. Aside from the first one, of course.”
“Then what,” the queen said, her voice cool, “have you been doing with them?”
“Surely you can’t be missing them,” Eugenides said wheedlingly. “You must have hundreds.”
“I did,” Attolia said meaningfully, “but that was before I married a thief. Now the box is nearly empty, and my attendants wonder how I could have misplaced so many ribbons within my own bedchamber.”
Eugenides chuckled softly.
“They already start to wonder,” she continued, “about the braid.” Among other things.
“Well surely that cannot be difficult for you to explain away,” Eugenides said lightly. His hand left her hair to trace the side of her face, her ear, her jaw. She shivered almost imperceptively at his touch, both willing him to notice and to remain oblivious to his effect on her.
“I take no pleasure in lying to my attendants,” she said stiffly.
“Would you like me to announce my presence then?” he asked blithely, trying to steer her off course yet again.
She pressed her lips together and pointedly did not glower. “I do not think they are ready for that quite yet… Aside from Phresine, of course. I think she knows all too much already.” But before her husband could lead the conversation further down this divergent path, she stated her demand point blank: “Give me back the hair ribbons.”
Eugenides paused. The fingers of his left hand trailed lightly down the side of her neck. “What are they worth to you?” he asked.
The queen arched one eyebrow, but bit her tongue before her instinctive response—a threat—could sneak past her lips. It was not in her nature, but she did try to be gentle with him.
“So you will make a bargain with me? What is it that you desire in exchange?” Her dry tone of voice indicated her low estimation of the ribbons’ value. She could have them replaced quite cheaply…but that would not explain the disappearance of the originals to her already curious attendants.
Eugenides smiled then, and shifted slightly forward, so that their noses bumped.
“Oh, I desire a great many things,” he said, his dark eyes looking into hers. “But I suppose I’ll be generous.”
“Will you,” the queen said flatly, resisting the ridiculous urge to return his smile.
“Yes,” Eugenides said magnanimously. “One hair ribbon, for one kiss.” And before the queen had a chance to reply, he had pressed his lips to hers—and then his left hand found her own under the covers and slipped into it the ribbon he had just pulled from her hair.
After that, she supposed, it became a sort of game for him. In the morning, when she woke, alone as she often did—for he preferred to sneak back to his apartments under cover of darkness—she would find a pile of ribbons atop the pillow where his head had rested the night before, a faithful tally of the night’s stolen kisses. The nights of one or two or three she could understand, but on other occasions she did not know how he kept score—or perhaps he didn’t, and only offered her a reasonable estimate. Depositing another generous pile of ribbons back into their rightful (and now plentifully stocked) box, she decided not to raise the point with him. After all, their bargain was—she was forced to admit to herself and no other—hardly unwelcome to her.
Then one night, when Attolia leaned in close for a kiss, Eugenides abruptly pulled back.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I’ve run out of hair ribbons.”
“You’ve run out,” the queen repeated.
“Well, it was bound to happen eventually,” he said. “The rate of exchange is a little uneven, if you remember. I can only steal one ribbon from you per night, whereas…” He paused, his eyes dropping to her lips. “I never can seem to stop at just one kiss,” he mused.
The queen, neglecting to care about the strictures of their inane bargain, shifted closer, but again Eugenides pulled back.
“Well, this is a dilemma,” he said.
The queen hmm’ed, regarding her husband somewhat balefully.
He snapped his fingers.
“I know,” he said. “You’ll simply have to get your attendants to do your hair all up in about a hundred little braids every night. I’m sure the style would suit you, My Queen.”
His queen arched a single eyebrow. “I’m sure there is a far more efficient way of procuring hair ribbons for a renowned thief who traipses freely through my apartments.”
And if her attendants began to suspect…what of it? She did not intend to spell it out for them, but nor would she go to absurd lengths to hide the truth. Her affection for her king could not—and ought not—be kept secret forever.
Eugenides blinked. “Well, when you put it that way…”
The following night, one of Attolia’s attendants fretted over the disappearance of the box containing Her Majesty’s entire collection of hair ribbons, but the queen waved it off.
“I’ll leave my hair loose tonight,” she said calmly, and did not meet Phresine’s knowing gaze.
Eugenides, however, missed the undoing of her braid, a circumstance which she had not expected.
“If you were going to be that disappointed,” she said, “you should have thought to leave at least one behind.”
Her husband pouted. “I was in a hurry,” he protested. Then his smile turned sly. “But you’ll have your fair share of them back by tomorrow morning,” he said.
“I’d better,” Attolia said, and she met him halfway.