Lady Sugar-glass

cw: 

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It had been said, on occasion, that Marlene was a bit self-centred.  Perhaps egotistical, perhaps self-absorbed, and perhaps capable, if  enabled, of producing her own gravitational pull strong enough to knock  the planets out of place and assume a new orbit around her.

This  was hyperbole, and unkind at that. She was not so entirely unaware, and  altogether not so selfish, and she thought it cruel that such criticisms  would always spring up in largest quantity and voraciousness right  around the time of her birthday.

After all, what was there to  celebrate at one’s birthday party, except oneself? That’s what they were  for. And understandably, that a birthday party might turn into a  birthday month, of sorts, was only natural. The weeks leading up to the  main event were spent overseeing the decorations, planning the banquet,  and waiting for the last of the imported goods to make it past the  border–the details of which were, of course, left to Marlene’s partner  and confidant, the endlessly capable Sabien of Monfort. 

He had,  at some point or other (Marlene didn’t remember when) given himself  secondary power over her finances, and what gold had pooled in her vault  from her own dowry, Francis’ affections, and the many gifts she had  received from her lovers, he manoeuvred and moved around in such a  manner that none of it ever seemed to go away. 

And anyway, she  could not be expected to worry about that nonsense; it made her wrinkly.  The only thing on Marlene’s agenda for now was to have a grand old  time. 

And that she did. She wandered the halls of her estate,  transformed for the night into something like a foreign palace, and  marvelled at it all from the imagined perspective of a visiting guest.  The walls had been covered up with heavy silken drapery in varying tones  of orange and red, hanging in huge, loose billows from the ceiling as  if bent under an invisible weight. The fabric had been stained into  mesmerising patterns, carefully designed to swirl in the eye after one  too many drinks, and the lowered ceiling allowed for a feeling of warmth  and privacy. Matching fine fabrics lay thrown over the boring old  furniture and covered the mountains of pillows piling in the corners.

And  permeating it all, pale frankincense burned in every other room,  tinting the air with a blueish fog and carrying with it the smell of  jasmine. Marlene followed the smoke through the hallways, fanning the  excess away with swooping movements of her hand.

The musicians had  not yet begun, and spare for the patter of feet and prickly voices of  the staff at work, the estate was silent. Marlene, alone in the hallway,  slid her hand over the bottom edge of a painting frame. It was a rather  overindulgent portrait of a young Marzenka, barely twenty and with pink  powder in her hair. 

“What do you mean? Where is he, then?” Sabien’s raised voice came from the drawing room. 

Marlene perked up. 

“Not sure, Excellency. The snow has turned the roads to slush. Maybe his Lordship was delayed.“ 

“Send a scout.“ 

"Respectfully,  it’s not safe for a lone rider past sunset, and in this weather. And we  need all hands on deck right here, my Lord." 

"Did you not understand me? Is my accent that bad?" 

"No, Excellency, I understood you perfectly, but I have to insist…" 

"You don’t get to insist. You don’t even get a say.” Sabien’s firm, cold voice made Marlene wince. “Now, send the scout." 

The  response was a quiet grumble. Footsteps followed. Cautiously, Marlene  poked her head into the room, fully ready to poke back out at a moment’s  notice, but Sabien was alone and very still. As she looked on from her  hiding place, he shrugged off his delia and threw it over the nearest  chair, then let out a heavy sigh. His shoulders slumped lower than she  usually saw them.

He was muttering something. It sounded like Gardish. 

"Dove?” she called from the doorway, painfully aware of the concern in her voice.

He jumped like a frightened bird, but deflated when he saw her, hand going to his chest.

“You’re trying to kill me, Marlene,” he said. 

She brushed it off. Sabien suffered from many ailments, but a weak heart was not one of them. 

“What’s got you so tense?” she asked.

When  he didn’t reply, she drew closer and ran her hands up his arms, trying  to sneak to his waist. With a gentle touch to her shoulder, he drew  away. 

“I used to pull a flour cart,” he muttered out of the blue,  his gaze lost somewhere over her shoulder. “The cosmos has a sense of  humour." 

"Sorry, dove?" 

"Your husband tarries,” he said, louder now. His brow grew furrowed. “He should be here." 

Marlene was not discouraged. It was entirely possible Francis had changed his mind, after all. 

"Oh, and so what? You know how he is at parties." 

"You ought to appreciate that he comes at all." 

"Well, no one is forcing him. Besides, it’s good for him to leave his samotnya once in a while.”  

With  that, her hand crept into the crook of his elbow, securing a hold on  him. He seemed far away, now, and when he got into these moods, there  wasn’t anything Marlene knew to do except seduce him. She lifted herself  gently onto her toes and slipped her fingers up to his cheek. It took a  gentle pull to get him to look at her. 

“My Lord,” she said, threading a note of pleading into the words. 

Sabien’s remaining hand cradled hers, only to gently pull it away from his face. 

“This night is yours to enjoy,” he said softly. “I’ll go, and set the details in order." 

There  was a certain quality to his eyes, a haze that sometimes drew over the  knife-point of his intellect. It wasn’t quite desire, but more a  yearning, a want for something unnamed, and Marlene was hopelessly  addicted to trying to find out what it was. 

"You trust me, don’t you?” he added. 

He dipped forward, expecting a response. Marlene felt appalled warmth hit her face. 

“Of course, endlessly!”

“Then  take my good advice and helping hand,” he muttered, pressing a quick,  dry kiss to her knuckles. “And go tend to your guests." 

"I just wish you’d come with me.”

“I  don’t think so. Now, go. Theodore can’t help but come early,” he  snapped with distaste and, propelled by a wide sweep of his delia,  firmly marched out the door. 

The silence after Sabien left a room  always had a sting to it. It was hard to say exactly what kind, but it  must be understood that it was a bad one, an ugly one, and it was a  silence that Marlene couldn’t bear to marinate in for longer than a few  seconds.

Humming helped. So hum she did, making up a melody as she tried her best to walk jauntily out the other door and to the stairs. 

Besides,  he was right. Theodore, an old friend of Marlene’s by now, was a  diligent and aggressively traditional man who would not be caught dead  showing up fashionably late. As a display of reliability, it was to be  valued. As a testament to his stubbornness, it was, at least, an  accurate representation of his approach to every other matter. 

As  Marlene’s strut took her to the foyer, she caught the first few  orphaned words of idle chatter, and promptly found that a gaggle of  guests had already squeezed their way inside. Mortified, she ducked  behind a curtain and shuffled into the servant passageway, having very  nearly avoided ruining her own grand entrance.

“…tinsel and brocade.”

“Gauche. He has his style, if nothing else." 

"Hm. A match made in heaven." 

The  proper thing to do was to sneak back up to her boudoir, freshen up, and  await the more important guests’ arrival so that she could greet them  in full splendour, with feathers and perfume and His Excellency parading  her down the stairs. She wanted that. She wanted all of that. 

Still, she stopped and peeked back out through the crack in the door. 

It  seemed the snow had held back more than one guest of honour–she didn’t  recognise most of the faces in the foyer. From miniscule Lords to  laughing unmarried girls, they all seemed completely content to be  chatting amongst themselves, gathered under the umbrella of the high  arched ceiling. At some point, music had finally started flowing through  the estate, and it brought a cheer to the awkward gathering that seemed  frighteningly genuine. Her fingers drummed gently on the door as she  watched. Didn’t they know the party hadn’t started yet?

"Four pristine white geese. And a goat." 

"Ate the geese, but the goat? She acted like she birthed that thing." 

"Well, it’s not like she’s going to birth much else." 

"It’s hard to breathe in here…" 

The  doors flew open, wind and snow squeezing their way in and sweeping over  the floor. A figure, caked in white, marched firmly across the  threshold. The feather on his hat was wet and slumped sadly to the side;  snow had settled on his shoulders and beard in a sprinkling of hard  clumps. In a whip-fast, decisive motion, he brushed some off his chest  and looked around. 

Marlene would have known him anywhere by the  nose alone. It was straight as an arrow and just as sharp; he kept it  high, like a hunting dog, always to the wind. His willowy wife trailed  behind him like a napkin caught on his shoe, her big, wet eyes sliding  listlessly over the decor. 

Suddenly, Theodore spun around, his  brow coming down low over his eyes. He demanded something from his wife,  who also glanced from side to side in a panic, then took her hand and  pulled her along. As they passed by the door Marlene was hidden behind,  their voices grew clear. The couple was arguing. 

"She’s not here. Brother’s gaze,” Theodore growled. 

His wife’s voice was quiet. “Well. This is what lack of discipline does to a girl." 

"It’s  not my damned lack of discipline, it’s Yarob's–Yarob’s kid. With two  sons of the highest quality, I suppose it’s only statistics that the  daughter would come out rotten." 

"You’ll see blame anywhere but in our Beksa…" 

Marlene  pulled back as they walked by, hoping desperately the curtain obscured  her. Her cheeks flared with shock; they hadn’t paid any attention at all  to the gorgeous fabric pinned to the walls, or even to the gilded  centrepiece of the Sister caught in a bowing motion, with offerings laid  at her feet. She’d had that statue taken out of storage just for  tonight. 

"Absolutely hysterical. If you’re into that kind of thing,” a lisping male voice from the crowd.

“Sounds blasphemous.”

“Oh, don’t be so uptight, it’s only theatre." 

"Theatre tends to give the public ideas." 

The  scattered conversations felt like they were coming to her from another  world, one that she wasn’t privy to tonight. A small part of her almost  wished that this wasn’t her party, but someone else’s, and she could be  free to just go out and mingle with the other guests, to explore the  rooms and taste the food and drinks, all for the first time. To spot a  tall, serious man standing alone across the room, and to beg her friend  for an introduction. 

As Marlenka went back down the corridor and  turned to make her way to her boudoir, she very nearly collided with a  figure in the dark. 

"Aaaa!” she yelped. 

“Aaaa!” came the response.

After a moment, a match was struck, illuminating a pale face and a pair of clear grey eyes. Marlene gasped. 

“Spying for His Excellency, Auntie?” Beksa joked, but a slight wince betrayed her embarrassment. 

“What are you doing in here?!” Marlene exclaimed quietly. “This is all very private, you know. Off limits!”

Beksa looked down.

“My father is looking for me." 

"Yes,  I saw. What’s happened, dear?” Marlene watched her light another match  and helpfully pointed her to the simple candlestick on the wall. Beksa  lit it. 

The passageway filled with the weak yellow light of poor  quality wax. Beksa was wearing a modest dress which, like all of her  clothes, covered her from her neck to her toes and evoked a rainy swamp  in terms of palette. In a word, it was awful. It was an insult to the  decorations. 

“Nothing’s happened,” she said. “You know what he’s like. My disagreement with him is… terminal." 

"Terminal?" 

Beksa looked wary. "Same as it always was, and always will be." 

"Everyone  struggles to live up to their parents’ expectations, darling.” Marlene  patted her shoulders and took the opportunity to straighten out the  dress. “You have to… smooth things out a bit. Besides, it’s not like he  expects the impossible, no? You will marry someday." 

When Beksa didn’t reply, she pushed on. 

"Maybe  not tomorrow, of course, or the day after that, but you’ll meet a man  you like. And, speaking of which, it wouldn’t hurt you to go out there  and at least socialise." 

Beksa’s face took on a strange expression, a bit like someone had poured a raw egg down the front of her dress. 

"Thank  you for your advice,” she said eventually, in a rather quiet voice,  “And all the best, Marlene. Divine party. Could you tell me where to  find Sabien?" 

"Oh, thank you–His Excellency is still upstairs,”  Marlene replied, opening her mouth to follow up with a witty remark or  perhaps a candid invitation to her boudoir (as Beksa could use some  makeup advice) but before she could form the words, the girl turned on  her heel and walked off.

She seemed almost to melt away, joining  with the black of the passageway like she had been only an extension of  it to begin with. When Marlene took a few steps after her, fully  expecting a turn, or perhaps an open hole in the floor into which poor  Beksa may have fallen, there was nothing. 

She stood there for a moment, mystified. Then she remembered her party. 

The  time for the grand opening to the night was fast approaching. She  couldn’t be sure if her sisters had arrived yet, but it was too late to  try and find out. The powdering of her nose was a critical matter now.  It was unusual, doing it alone; usually Sabien was with her, because for  all his whining and rolling eyes, he did like to watch. But as she  emerged from the passageway and into the boudoir, she realised that  tonight, of all nights, he was not here.

It was easy to get lost  in the silence. She could hear her mother’s voice crowing about the  glass of wine which now stood, mostly finished, among the powders and  creams. Her own sad eyes stared back at her from the mirrors in her  vanity. 

She wasn’t built for solitude. 

As her gaze shifted  idly to the window, she saw something move on the path leading out to  the main road. It was pitch black outside, and the burning torches on  either side of the entrance didn’t do much to light past a few steps in  any direction. As she looked on, she realised–more by its movement than  anything else–that it was a lone rider on horseback, heading out the  front gate. 

Sabien’s scout, perhaps. There was just one detail  out of place, and that was the horse; it was giant and black as night,  and the more Marlene thought about it, the more it seemed to resemble  Sabien’s prize stallion. 

She jumped out of her seat, hands slamming down on the vanity. Perfume bottles rattled under the mirror. 

“Sabien?!" 

She  threw open the door, her heart pounding, only to find His Excellency  the Spymaster smoking a pipe by one of the windows in the hallway. 

"My Lord,” she gasped out, hanging in the doorway on her suddenly weak arms, “I thought I saw–" 

He  drew his eyes away from the window and glanced at her in surprise.  Smoke shot out of his nose in two distinct columns, which he seemed not  to notice. 

"Heavens, Marlenka." 

"You…” She looked out the window, but the rider was naturally long gone. “I thought I saw your horse." 

"Perhaps you were mistaken. It’s very dark out there.” He gestured with the pipe. 

“Perhaps,” she said miserably, only for his benefit. 

Of  course, Sabien would not ride off looking for Francis on her birthday.  Of course not. Francis was one thing, a rather bothersome thing, true,  but surely it couldn’t measure up; surely, Sabien knew that. 

She  walked down the stairs in a daze. Feathers and glitter exploded around  her, fans shook and fluttered in a spectacle she had forgotten to  enjoy. 

If not for his arm holding her up, she almost feared she  might’ve fallen, the way her feet seemed loose and numb underneath her.  She heard her own voice greeting her guests; she saw her hand waving. A  sea of faces down below, all here to celebrate her. So many people. She  couldn’t even name them all. 

Her gaze snagged on Klara, standing  right at the foot of the stairs. Ida wasn’t with her. Marlene’s grip on  Sabien’s arm became a matter of life or death.

“A pleasure to lay eyes on you again,” Sabien was saying to her younger sister.

Klara–pulled  tight as a bowstring, frozen like a young doe before a hunter, bowed  her head. Her face was white, big eyes glancing up at him. The moment he  took her hand to kiss it, her arm went limp, like she didn’t want to  acknowledge it was still attached to her body. 

“Honoured, Your  Excellency.” When he released her, she looked down and fiddled with a  ruffle on her dress. “Thank you for indulging my sister. You’ve spared  no expense." 

"Please, anything for Lady de Sava.” He dipped into  something like a small bow, which Klara immediately contested, bending  down lower than him. Sabien gave her an odd look. “Well, I suppose I’ll  leave you to catch up. Regards." 

With a small gesture of goodbye, he turned around and his tall, purple form merged with the crowd. 

"So, then, he…” Klara began. “He seems well." 

"Yes,” Marlene replied, doing her best to maintain a smile, “He is well." 

"And you?” She always looked so worried, asking that. 

“Well,  happier than ever, don’t you know?” Marlene jauntily put her hands on  her hips and tilted her head to the side. “I have everything I could ask  for, and in fact, a little more than that.”

“Look, before I came here, Ida said–" 

"Oh,  Ida!” Marlene scoffed, her suspicions confirmed. “If she has something  to say, she can at least have the guts to come to my house and say it to  my face." 

"This is the family estate,” Klara corrected, in the same quiet tone, “And if anyone is to inherit it, it will be her." 

"Am  I not allowed to have one good thing?” she squeaked. Her throat had  gotten tight. “Why are you pestering me with this? On my birthday?”

“I’m  not trying to pester you, I’m just worried! How much did you spend on  this party? I can’t see one thing that’s not imported.” Klara glanced  around, as if to prove her point. “You are our Spymaster’s mistress. You  know how much all this costs with the embargo? Do you know why there  are no foreign ambassadors at our court? This is really irresponsible." 

"You’ve read too many books, I think." 

"This  isn’t ‘books’, Marzenka!” she urged, leaning in, “Your lover is no  longer just a high-level official, he rules this country.”

“I know that." 

"Do you? Or do you think it’s just a glamorous job description?" 

Marlene hesitated. 

"I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” Klara said, “But I also know how persuasive you can be." 

Oh,  if only–if only Marlene could persuade him to do anything at all. She  swallowed the bitter feeling in her mouth and looked out the window to  calm herself down, but further from the entrance, there was no light  source outside, and the window might’ve as well been painted black. 

Klara hung her head. "Every year, we take another step back in history." 

"What a grim conversation,” a sweet, melodic voice interrupted from nearby. “And on such a joyful day! All the best, Marlenka." 

With  the thrum of an opening fan, the beautiful Adelajda inserted herself  into their little conversation. Her pleasant expression had the quality  of a well-polished veneer. 

"Adela, how nice to see you’re back on your feet after your illness,” Klara said, rather too flatly to be earnest. 

“Oh,  yes. Thank you. I feel awful that I couldn’t attend the soiree.” She  idly fanned herself as she spoke. “But what was that I heard about our  fatherland?" 

"Only idle worries. We are in capable hands,”  Marlene interjected softly. Her eyes searched for Sabien in the crowd,  but she couldn’t find him. “One capable hand, I suppose. But one is  plenty." 

"We would be in a great deal of trouble if that wasn’t  the case,” Adela said. “Could you imagine? Oh, we would be lost without  our Spymaster." 

"Exactly so,” Marlenka concurred. 

Klara looked sour, but contributed nothing. 

“It’s  only a testament to this court that his reputation is hardly sterling,”  Adela continued, seeming aghast, “Have you heard some of the gossip  that goes around?”

Marlenka flared with curiosity. “Whatever could you mean?" 

"But  it would be dishonourable to repeat it! Besides, it couldn’t be true.  The Lord Spymaster is, as anyone can see, quite madly in love with you.”

She  felt the weight of what Adela was pointedly not saying settle over her.  Distress came with it. She wanted to push the words back into her  mouth. 

“And who could blame him?” Klara said quietly but firmly, “My sister is a delight.”

But  it didn’t do much, besides adding another layer of sugar-glaze to a  rotting cake. A spritz of perfume wouldn’t hide the stench. 

It did, however, knock Adela off course, and leave enough silence for Marlenka to hear a raised voice from across the room.

“One  honest word out your mouth! Just one.” Theodore, sounding like he was  about to choke, had confronted someone in the corridor leading to the  west wing.

“And you, Klara?” Adela had found her balance again. “I  see you don’t have a dance card. What a shame, for a girl not to dance  at a party.”

“Dancing isn’t really for me. I’ll leave it to the girls who find joy in it." 

"What about the young men vying for your attention? Won’t they be heartbroken?”

Klara levelled her with the look of an underpaid actress delivering her only line in the play.

“Adela, with you in the room, I’d be lucky if they even glanced my way." 

Marlenka  would have disagreed, but she was preoccupied with the scene playing  out nearby. Adela was laughing. The silhouettes were dark against the  candlelight coming in through the doorway, but at his height, Sabien was  unmistakable.

"Calmly, now,” Sabien said. 

“She’s always hiding behind your skirts. I know she wouldn’t have left without speaking to you." 

There  was an order to these things, a way of greeting guests by rank and  going to great lengths to avoid stepping on any toes. By all accounts,  it was her duty to attend to her friends. It was her duty as a good  hostess. She had greeted her closest family, and now she should move on  to cousins. 

But how could she do it without her Spymaster? 

Marlenka  withdrew from the polite argument that had broken out right beside her  and slid along the side of the room to get closer to the two men.

"I don’t want to see her anywhere near you." 

"You want me to beat her away with a stick?”

“Have you no honour at all?”

“Famously not. Now, shoo.” She could almost see the motion he was making with his hand. 

“You  miserable freak.” Theodore’s voice had fallen to a forceful whisper,  and even without a direct line of sight, Marlene knew he was going red  with rage. “You’re a curse on this court. Everything you’ve laid your  damned evil hand on, you have tainted in some way." 

"I’ll taint your mother next if you don’t fuck off." 

Marlenka put a hand over her mouth. She could hear Theodore breathing heavily around the corner. 

"You listen to me. I will not see you ruin my daughter like you ruined Marzena." 

Her  blood ran cold. With her heart pounding in her ears, she inched closer  to the turn and took a peek. Sabien had crowded Theodore against the  wall, using his height to glower at him from above; and though Theodore  was putting up a fight, he had visibly shrunk away from the Spymaster,  trying to put distance between them. 

"Say that again,” Sabien demanded. 

Theodore did not. 

“What  a friend you are to her,” he continued darkly. His voice had fallen to a  quiet growl. “You overestimate your footing. Our King grows weaker by  the year; his mind is unraveling. There will come a day when you don’t  matter to him anymore, when he doesn’t even remember your name." 

"More lies." 

Sabien didn’t seem to hear him.

"–When that day comes, mark my words, they’ll be fishing you out of the river in pieces." 

The hairs on her arms stood on end; lightning shot through her like it’d cleaved her in two. 

When  she looked up again, Sabien was staring right at her. She nearly jumped  out of her skin. He burst into motion, and as he made his way toward  her in large, firm steps, it was as if she had taken root.

When he  pulled on her elbow, it felt like he had pulled her right out of her  body, leaving the cumbersome thing behind. She looked over her shoulder  to see Theodore standing there, shocked, his face halfway out of anger  and into embarrassment.

They were moving. The ballroom opened up  around them; the grandest space in her little palace of dreams and  fairytales, and it seemed small now. White smoke hung under the ceiling,  got trapped in the chandeliers, gathered in great round plumes under  the walls. It looked like clouds had formed inside the room. 

"He didn’t mean that, did he, do you think?” she asked.

Sabien  tried to join the dancers, but she dug her heels in until they slid  across the polished floor. When he looked back at her, his face was  cold. 

“Forget the bastard." 

It made her chest tight. In  that moment, she might’ve jumped in front of a blade just to prompt him  to defend her further. She allowed him to lead her, let herself listen  to the music. She felt very safe there, one hand on his upper arm, one  softly resting on the stump of his wrist; her gaze on his chest, on the  pretty buttons of his żupan. 

"My love…” she began.

She was  suddenly torn from him as they joined the row and switched partners.  There was a flurry of fine silks and furs, a parade of hair and fanciful  wigs. Sabien vanished from view and as the boiled sea of dancers  settled, Marlenka found herself face to face with Javor Tcharneńsky. 

“Oh,” she said, doing her best to seem in high spirits, “Well, hello." 

He  looked older than he had when she’d last seen him, and surprisingly so;  it must have been just over a year, but the last of his boyish charm  was gone. The way he carried himself hadn’t changed much; his red hair  shaved spare of a tuft on his head, the large whiskers low over his  upper lip, a jaw carved in marble. He had always known how to look like a  noble. 

"My best wishes to you, my Lady. You look absolutely  radiant,” he said, in a tone that was more informative than  appreciative. “I hope you’ve found time to enjoy your birthday. This all  seems like it took a great deal of preparation and planning." 

"Oh,  n-no, not at all,” she replied. She gritted her teeth a little and  smiled. “You see, my dear friend, the Royal Spymaster, organised it for  me. I have been free to enjoy myself to my liking, and it’s been a  dream." 

"How lucky you are, then, to have his favour." 

Perhaps.  But she could not focus. She had known, of course, that people talked,  but not Theo. Theo was a remarkably straightforward man in all respects.  And a just man, at that. 

"And are you–are you enjoying yourself?” Marlene remembered to ask.

“As much as one could, in my position. Thank you for inviting me nonetheless." 

Something  occurred to her. Now, while Marlene didn’t necessarily know every  single guest well, and she certainly knew people tended to show up  regardless, she was very sure she had not sent an invitation to Javor  Tcharneńsky. 

She looked over at Sabien. 

The fear returned with a vengeance, tearing at her insides. 

He  was dancing with fair Adela. They seemed lost in conversation. From a  distance, her hair glistened and shone, drawing eyes whenever a gem  hidden between her locks caught the light. 

A dream. It was a dream. 

Gallantly  taking her hand, Javor led Marlene through a few steps, his chest  puffed out and frame held tightly at precisely the right angle and  distance. 

"Have you had any opportunity to catch up with–with your acquaintances at court?” she asked. 

“Not yet. I’m out of practice, navigating this sort of affair." 

"And  understandably so. Don’t hesitate to ask me for an introduction, or a  re-introduction, I suppose–my point being, I’ll be glad to help smooth  things along for you, sir, if you require it." 

"You’re a gift, my Lady.”

“Oh, no, anything for a friend of His Excellency,” she said, not really hearing him. 

Adela  seemed to be asking Sabien something, and rather impatiently demanding  the answer. It was a much harsher expression than Marlene typically saw  from her, and in contrast, Sabien remained perfectly calm, where he  couldn’t usually be expected to keep his temper under control when  dealing with argumentative young women. 

“Your eyes always follow him, do you know that?”

Marlenka turned back to Javor. He didn’t seem upset, or accusatory; just contemplative. His hold on her hand was gentle. 

She sighed. 

“His eyes wander." 

It  was not something to fault him for, when he had, from the very  beginning, been transparent with her as to his own nature. Of course,  there was a part of her that doubted; a part that whispered to her that  it was something she lacked, something wrong with her, that she was  simply not enough. And by definition, she wasn’t. If he wanted more, how  could it be said that she was? She had long run out of more to give. 

"How is he?” Javor asked, in a low voice. 

“He would be very happy to speak to you, I’m sure,” she replied.

“Forgive me. I’d rather not take up more of his time." 

She hummed in empty agreement. 

In  her youth, she would get flowers sent to her after each ball. From some  man or other, she hardly remembered any names now. But she remembered  the curious–and, let it be said, slightly envious–look in Klara’s eyes  whenever another arrived, and so, at some point, she had taken to  pulling a flower from each bouquet and gifting this small arrangement to  her little sister.

Placed in a small crystal vase, it wilted sadly over the pianoforte, and it made Klara happy. 

She didn’t know if she was that person anymore.

Javor  let go of her hand, and Sabien’s familiar perfume and touch overwhelmed  as she was returned to his arms. She could have known him blindfolded,  and even in uncertainty, even in pain, it was better to be with him than  without him. It felt like she could breathe again. 

"Stars, he looked miserable,” Sabien muttered obliviously as they reunited, “What did he say?" 

His gaze was fixed on the back of Javor’s head. She inhaled slowly. Ambergris and musk, and the fur of his scarf. 

"Did he mention me at all?” he asked, more urgently.

She blinked a few times, holding onto his hand tight.

“No. He didn’t.”

There  was only so long an evening could drag on before the smoke began to  choke. It worried her that she could already feel it in her mouth, in  her lungs. It worried her that she noticed it, when usually she was too  drunk to care. She opted to correct this. 

With a glass full of  cognac, she scanned the ballroom for anything at all worth her time. A  man? No, no, better leave room for Sabien. A friend? Only the Sister  knew where Klara had wandered off to. Not even a familiar face on the  horizon. As she looked on, a few heads turned to the door. 

After a moment, Marlenka heard it too–the beating of hooves outside. The creak of wood. 

A horse neighed loudly nearby. 

“Goodness, that’s one late arrival,” Marlenka said, gathering up her dress as she headed for the doorway. 

Some  guests had shifted with interest, but nobody was rushing to step out  into the snowy night. With a stream of apologies and excuses, Markenka  rushed into the foyer just in time to see Sabien march out the front  door. 

Pitch black, merely licked by the flame of the lanterns,  surrounded his silhouette. From it emerged the giant, steaming shape of a  black stallion. 

Hooves crunching in the gravel, it took a sharp  turn as it slowed, revealing a carriage that had been following. Two  exhausted horses, wet as if they’d been doused with water, pulled it  forward on quivering legs. One nearly collapsed upon coming to a halt,  and swayed widely in the harness.. 

The stallion, having slowed to  a trot, now wriggled and fussed as it approached Sabien. The rider on  its back was hard to see, but when they attempted to dismount, the horse  bucked and skirts sailed through the air. The girl dropped to the  ground like a rock. 

“That was rude,” Sabien said to the horse, which walked a few steps to the side and began scratching its head against a column.

“Brother’s fucking balls.” Beksa sat up in the snow and ran her hands over her face. “I told you he hates me.”

Sabien let out an amused snort. “Good work nonetheless, my dear." 

The  girl pulled herself to her feet. The hem of her dress was covered in  dark mud, and the rest of it had grown wet with snow. She had a delia  over her shoulders, and that too was nearly drenched. 

"Darling!” Marlenka exclaimed, and Beksa finally seemed to notice her presence. “What in the world is all this?" 

Suddenly  tense, Beksa scrambled to straighten herself out, tucking her hair  behind her ears and brushing the snow off her shoulders. Her face was  pale white, her mouth tight. She seemed unable to meet her eyes.

Marlenka looked at Sabien. He stared back shamelessly, his hand stroking his horse’s neck. 

"Beksa,  get out of here,” he ordered with a flick of his other arm. The girl  darted sideways and out of sight like a scalded cat. He raised his  voice. “Now, Lord de Sava! Do you yet breathe?”

The door to the carriage swung open and the short, stout figure of Marlenka’s husband popped out. 

“Gracious me,” he said with a bright smile, putting his hands on his hips and glancing around. “I’m thawing out by the second." 

"Good.  A block of ice makes for poor conversation.” Although Sabien’s tone was  stern, there was something else laced underneath, something different.  Like the true colour of a fine fabric hidden under chiffon. 

“My  valet’s passed out inside. He got a bit too drunk on the way. You’ll  send someone to get him, won’t you?” Francis hopped off the step and  crossed the muddy driveway. “Marlenka, beloved, I’m so sorry. We took a  wrong turn off the road and ended up in who-knows-where, in the pitch  dark." 

His round face was shiny-red at the cheeks and chin, his  eyes sparkling with good humour. Despite being very clearly half-frozen,  he was all but glowing; genuine mirth coloured his every movement.

Guilt  gripped her. "I’m just glad you’ve been recovered safely,” she mumbled,  reaching forward and taking his hand. It was very cold. “Come in.  Come." 

Men shot past to carry out the valet, women brought tea to  the foyer to warm Francis up. Though she’d hoped he wouldn’t, Sabien  remained close, his duties forgotten for the moment as he hovered over  Francis’ shoulder.

"That odd young woman on horseback, that  wouldn’t have been Theodore’s daughter, would it?” Francis asked between  sips. He tapped his nose, chuckling. “Forgive me, it’s been a while.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, that’s funny. That’s very funny." 

Sabien smiled, lowering his head and raising his hand in a little self-satisfied bow. "I know." 

Francis laughed. "You devil." 

Marlenka bit her lip, glancing between them. 

And  there it went, floating off on a strange new current; the last chance  of having anything to herself tonight. The last look her way, the last  smile. Sabien had not taken his eyes off her husband since the moment he  appeared.

"Love, you owe your wife at least one dance,” she said to Francis.

“Oh, my sweetheart, you know I hate to dance,” he whined apologetically, tilting his head to the side. “Don’t make me.”

“But it’s my birthday." 

"And it will be a happier one without me stepping on your toes." 

Marlenka felt strange. A numb sensation began to grip her, coming from the outside in.

"I…" 

"Would  you believe this atmosphere? Oh, haven’t you gone and outdone  yourself…” Francis turned in a half-circle, away from Marlene and the  crowd. She was left alone, in a small, empty corner of the room. Sabien  hummed like a pleased cat, diligently following Francis as he took  everything in with open enthusiasm.

“I thought you might enjoy it." 

Marlenka  thought she would sit down on the floor then and there, with how liquid  her legs seemed. She felt oddly short of breath and small, like someone  had put her in an invisible box that just kept shrinking. 

Francis  drew his hand along a large swell of fabric hanging near the window.  There was a gentleness to his touch that betrayed he knew he was  handling velvet that had travelled across two seas to get here. 

"I’m  glad you made it.” Sabien’s voice was quiet. When he stood over  Francis’ shoulder, there was an interesting tilt to him, like a weeping  willow hanging over a lake, every branch drawn to the water. “It would  be a shame to let this evening go to waste." 

She suddenly  realised she wanted to cry, which was not the behaviour of a good  hostess at all. She blinked anxiously, trying to will the tears away,  but her vision was blurring. She must have misheard him. He must have  gotten his words mixed up.

"Mmmp,” she said, possibly with the intent to say something else, but her throat was impossibly tight. 

She  picked a random glass up from a nearby table and held it tightly in her  hand as she slipped into a gap in the crowd. The ballroom was loud  enough to drone out her thoughts, but it wasn’t enough; she downed the  glass. To her disappointment, it was white wine. 

“Yes, thank you, hello,” she mumbled to guests attempting to talk to her, but her eyes slid over them. 

A  friend from up by the sea. A distant cousin and her husband, and his  brother who got sick last year and barely survived. A woman with a wig  dusted with purple, familiar, but nameless. An old lover. Another, from  last year. Another man, an older one, watching her across the room with  that hungry look in his eye. 

Then, Theo. 

She saw him  holding up a wall, glass in hand. His brow was heavy over his eyes and  he looked like he’d been simmering for just a little too long, left over  the heat and forgotten there. 

Marlenka contemplated. She began to sidle up toward him. 

A blue eye appeared from under his brow, then the other. He raised his head to look at her. 

“Marzenka." 

She decided not to correct him. Tears were welling up in her eyes. "Have you recovered your daughter?" 

"No. My little Beksa… she might as well have fallen through the floor." 

"She’ll come up for air, don’t worry." 

"Who knows. Sometimes it feels like she might drown herself just to spite me.”

Silence hung between them for a moment. Then, he sighed. 

“Marzenka…”

“Please, don’t,” she said quickly.

“You are a good woman, but you’ve bound yourself to a bad man. That’s all I meant." 

Another glass, from someone’s hand. Cognac. Better.

"Do  we all not play the same game?” she asked, looking out over the crowd.  She sniffled. “What makes him such a bad man, in the grand scheme of  things?" 

"I wouldn’t sully you with the words to describe it. You  are brittle, whether you know it or not, delicate–by nature. It’s your  beauty, but it’s also why these affairs cannot be yours to know." 

Marlene inhaled slowly. 

"An hour ago I was ruined, Theo." 

"Those words weren’t meant for you." 

"Then  perhaps you ought to have said them more quietly.” She gestured with  the glass. The first tear rolled down her cheek. “Or even not said them  at all.”   

It was easy to disappear in the fumes, to hide behind a  curtain and drink her cognac down to the last drop. Then, with her head  already spinning, it was a task to catch the edge of the hidden door  with her fingers and quickly hide inside. 

As soon as she was out  of sight, she leaned her forehead against the inside of the wall and  shut her eyes tight. Her thoughts were buzzing, her cheeks warm, but the  hollow pain in her chest would not go away. She wished someone had  followed her; she wished she hadn’t left. Her ears were ringing. 

A laugh came from outside. Muffled voices, a funny conversation. The clapping of hands. 

Against  all odds, she pulled in a breath. She was warm and dizzy, and floating  on that feeling, the matter didn’t seem altogether so serious at all.  She wondered what she’d been so upset about. Nothing had happened, no?  Everything was just as it had been. 

She set the empty glass down  on the floor by her feet and patted her cheeks until the sweat  transferred to her gloves. Looking up, she dragged her fingers under her  eyes to dispose of smudged makeup. She smushed her hair into shape. 

Then she went back out into the crowd. 

She  passed by the musicians on her way through the parade of rooms; she  greeted a few guests, exchanged a word with others. She dragged through  the party like a fly in syrup, but she was moving, drawn steadily up the  stairs and along the corridor in an unhurried, but willful way, downing  drinks as she went. 

The smile wavered on her face as she walked  the last few steps across the empty hallway and into her boudoir. It was  silent here, the candles burning low, the vanity in disarray where she  had left it while getting ready. Her powder lay half-spilled over her  diary, her brushes and ribbons scattered on the floor among loose  stockings and gloves. She finished her glass and put it down somewhere.  Anywhere. Heard it fall. 

She carefully stepped over a stray shoe,  then fell into the chair with all the finality of an egg hitting the  kitchen floor. A sob was building in her throat, but she stubbornly held  it down, pushing her nose into the crook of her elbow and pretending  she could hide there for good. Her head swam; the scent of her own  perfume overwhelmed her. 

And there she remained, listening to her  ears ring in the silence. She soon had to straighten up, as her joints  ached from the position, but her face fell into her hands instead. 

It  was as if the whole world had some sort of dislike for her tonight. But  that couldn’t be true; she categorically refused to believe such a  thing.

Things always went south where her husband and her lover  were involved, really. Glances and gestures stopped making sense and  conversations started growing layers. Everything slowly warped into a  strange, twisted version of itself and Marlenka would get scared; alone  on the fringes, excluded and forgotten. 

She was scared now. 

The  door creaked, and she bolted upright. The large, familiar shape of her  Spymaster stepped inside, and then she heard the click of a key turning  in the lock. 

“My Lord?” she called him, uncertain. 

“There’s  drunks stumbling around all over the place. Oof, and in here as well,  it seems.” He stepped over a spilled glass. So that’s where that went. 

He  was not wearing his delia, and looked oddly bare without it. His  fingers were curled around the key, but as he drew near, he opened his  hand and let it drop to the vanity with a quiet clink. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. 

Marlenka  stared up at him from her chair. It was as if he were looking at her  from the tallest tower in a castle on a mountain, he was just so far  away. 

She gulped. Her eyes stung. 

“I…" 

"Is this  about Theodore?” Sabien briskly turned and sat on the edge of the  vanity, his hand resting awkwardly on his lap. “You should not have  heard that." 

She sniffed loudly and took a few breaths through  her mouth, trying to keep her face under control. A sticky little drop  rolled down her lip and she quickly covered it with her fingers.

With  a little flutter, Sabien produced a handkerchief and offered it to her  like a practised gentleman, bowing his head with sombre gravity. She  couldn’t help a giggle as she took it, glancing at him out of the corner  of her eye. 

"Nothing in the world could ruin you,” he added, looking up at the painted ceiling of her boudoir, “Not even me." 

Then  he rubbed his neck and made a face like it hurt, his gaze falling back  to the floor. She felt dizzy, and tired, and numb all at once. Drunk, in  a word.

"Sometimes,” Marlenka mumbled, “My darling, sometimes… I think you don’t love me.”

Sabien shifted, re-crossing his legs. 

“Is that so?" 

Marlenka glanced at him from between her fingers. He looked at her down his nose, grim and dark and as piercing as ever. 

"You  have as much of me as I can bear to give you,” he continued, quiet.  “Yet you always ask for more. If you don’t have everything, you act like  you have nothing. Your greedy little hands, always reaching, always  clinging, like ivy up the wall." 

He leaned down, nearing their faces, and slid a finger up the side of her chin. 

"How much clearer can I be? You’re mine. You belong to me.”

A  bone-deep sense of calm overwhelmed her. She pressed her cheek into his  hand, head tipping to the side to follow him, breathe in his perfume  and chase the warmth of his palm. 

“Say that again." 

"I’ve  said it enough.” He grit his teeth on the words, taking back his hand.  “Now, get undressed. I’ll be back with Francis, he’s in the green guest  room. People are going to talk if he doesn’t sleep here." 

Marlenka huffed, sitting back in the chair. 

"What?” he asked flatly, caught halfway through the room. 

“I wish I could have married you." 

He  hovered there for a second, quiet and oddly vulnerable. Then a shadow  passed over his face and in the next second, all emotion was gone. 

"It’s too late for regrets,” he said. 

Then  he left, bowing his head at the door. Marlenka stared into space for a  while, not fully feeling the time pass. Her gaze moved languidly over  the room, sluggish and sticky like honey, until it finally met her eyes  in the mirror. They had fallen almost entirely shut under the weight of  the night. She was so very tired. 

She jerked awake to a cold, desolate silence. 

Most  of the candles had gone out. Her entire body hurt, but mostly her neck  and arms; the poor sleep and mounting hangover were written plainly on  her reflection, cast in a pale blue glow.

She was still by her  vanity; she had slept on the desk. With dawning horror, she looked out  the window. A slither of light was dancing on the horizon. 

It was morning, and she was alone.