He studied her a long, unblinking moment, then took his bite of dripping salad. His gaze dropped back to his bowl as he chewed. “I don’t care that you’re not a virgin. The physician can examine you along with your sister. It’s an easy enough obstacle to overcome.”
Tessa pressed her fingertips to her mouth, nostrils flared.
Lucius tipped his head the faintest fraction to look at her, lips pressed together. He radiated distress.
Interesting.
Marcellus said, “I don’t—”
“Eat,” Romanus commanded, voice cracking off the walls.
They ate.
~*~
The meal seemed unending, but in reality, only lasted an hour or so. Footmen whisked dishes away, and set down the next course, and Amelia only nibbled, here and there, all of the imported and pilfered delicacies tasting of ash on her tongue. She met Tessa’s gaze only twice; it hurt to have so much to say, for her throat to be jammed up with reassurance and apology, and not be able to voice any of it.
After, Marcellus escorted her back to her chamber, his hand biting cruel and cold on the back of hers, where he held their arms looped together.
If I’m such a whore, why don’t you throw me down tonight and have done with it?she wanted to taunt. But the still-burning mark of his hand on her cheek stayed her tongue.
She’d known a brief regret, when he first talked ofbreedingher, that she hadn’t taken a tumble with someone; read: Leif. She’d thought, then, that being with child might keep Marcellus away from her. Now, she found it a small mercy that there wasn’t a growing child to be “dealt with.”
Marcellus halted at her door, and unhooked his arm from hers with haste, like he couldn’t bear to touch her a moment longer. He glanced somewhere in the vicinity of her left ear and said, dismissively, “Someone will bring the physician to you tomorrow.” Then he turned on his heel and continued down the hallway.
The two guards who’d followed them took up posts on either side of the door, and Amelia knew that, if she tried to bolt, they’d catch her, and she’d have more than a bruised cheekbone for her efforts.
With a sigh, she let herself inside the chamber, and when the door was shut, heard the lock turn from the outside.
The fire crackled merrily, bright and pulsing warmth into the chamber. Candles flickered on the bedside table, and in the sconces, and on the low table in front of the sofa.
She thought it was the work of a slave—and it was, but not the lady’s maid she’d envisioned.
Cassius straightened from the table and blew out the fireplace spill he’d used to light the candles. He’d lost his stiff coat since she’d left for dinner, dressed now in a spring weight thigh-length tunic and breeches. The ensemble made his shoulders look broad—broader than she’d thought they were.
“My lady,” he greeted. “How was dinner?”
She turned, crossed to the sideboard, and poured herself a large measure of wine.
“Ah.”
She took a long, fortifying swallow and turned to lean back against the sideboard. Cassius, she saw, had perched on the arm of a chair, legs stretched out long in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He’d traded his usual boots for a soft-looking pair of slippers; they were dark purple lined with some sort of dyed fur, a sharp contrast to his pale, trim ankles. She stared at them a moment, the distinct lines of bone and tendon, the faint blue tracing of veins.
Pretty, she thought, and then gave herself a mental shake and took another slug of wine.
“Did you see your sister and cousin?” he asked, and she looked up at his face.
If he’d looked informal earlier, he was downright casual now. Clearly tired, no longer trying to hold his expression in check. He sat with arms folded, brows drawn together, chewing at his lower lip in an absent way. His sleek white hair was ruffled on top, like he’d been raking it back with his hands, and she realized he’d taken out the leather tie that kept it pulled back at the crown. It framed his face in a whole new way, now; lent a little color to his cheeks by contrast.
Again, against her will, she was reminded of Mal. Of him unbuttoning his collar and slouching against her bedpost, relaxed but attentive, caring but ready to tell her a hard truth should she need to hear it.
She took another sip of wine. “I did. I couldn’t speak to them—not freely. But they’re alive, at least. Tessa was—” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat, and pressed on. “She was very brave. Bold in a way she didn’t used to be.” She smileddespite the situation. And then sobered. “Oliver looked terrible. He looked…he lookedsick.”
She knew that he’d had a bout of marsh fever in Aeretoll; knew, thanks to Oliver’s blushing and Tessa’s sly smile, that his illness had been a catalyst for Erik to profess his affections. But every time she’d seen him in the Between since, he’d been healthy. Long-haired, now, and braided and beaded, and gaining muscle, learning sword work. He’d looked the best she’d ever seen him, dressed as a Northerner, flush with love, confident in his new title.
Tonight, he’d been a shell of that Oliver she’d met on the astral plane. Not simply frightened or worried, but unwell. She knew that glazed expression, the slackness of his jaw, the tremble of his hands. He was having a relapse, and she couldn’t help him.
Another sip. “He has a recurring illness, you know. Or…he had one. It’s back, I suppose.”
