I pretended to pout. I preferred to be the listener. I found my own voice inane at times. “I will if you come to bed while I read. I need your body warmth.”
He stood from the desk, unsure of what to do.
“I am closing my eyes. Put on your undershirt and breeks and hurry. I am cold.” I thought I heard his little exhale-laugh as he moved towards his wooden chest. “And what should we get? A tabby or the black and white one?”
“You confuse me, wife.”
“The kittens!” I exclaimed, eyes still shut. “They will soon wean from Maureen’s feeding them milk.”
“You may choose the kitten.”
I thought that a cat could warm the end of his bed after I was gone.
“You can open your eyes,” he said, now under the covers.
I opened the adventure story and by firelight, began to read to my husband, sipping at my whiskey with every turn of the page. I felt his gaze on me, but I kept mine on the book.
75. Turret
News of Perpatane’s collusion with other cities, settlements and territories, spreading their gold-fueled campaign, now was at the edge of most conversations in the keep. It was thought that Perpatane encouraged Eccleston to break trade agreements with Tintar, hoping for war. It was suspected that Perpatane had wanted to invite the restrained invasion and bring the wealthy mining bloodlines of Eccleston to their side, simultaneously using the invasion as a way of warning other small countries and territories, the savagery of Tintar was to be feared. Jeremanthy told Alric who later told me that the king of Perpatane wanted the coastline and instead of tariffs paid to Tintar, he planned to wage a war for the entirety of my new country. All Tintar could do was secure their infantry, cavalry and navy at its borders, hunkering down for winter and remain vigilant for an attack, though most thought it would be foolish for the Perpatanian army to try and trek through a frosty Nyossa or trudge around the forest up through the marshlands, which were full of vile reptilian creatures that slumbered in the murky water, waiting for their hibernation to be disrupted by meat.
This news was eclipsed by Eefa’s difficult delivery of a baby boy she named Winger. We had all visited the new mother, child and his great grandmother at the brewery several times. Eefa was softened by motherhood. I wondered at the father again, surmising that at her age, it had to have been a man taking advantage. She never, to my knowledge, spoke of his name or his story. Winger was red and screaming but we all liked to hold him, offering Eefa and Bronwyn a reprieve on rest days.
As the celebration of The Turn of Trees drew new, the comfort of my evenings with my husband was polluted by my own jealousies. As I made my way to my dinner from the earth temple one such evening, merry despite the doom that Archpriest Yro had prophesied, I was anticipating finishing the book about the boys in Nyossa when I spotted Alric talking to Vinia at one of the many entrances that intersected with the dining hall. I did not let myself observe them. I did not let myself try to read their manner and what it must mean. I swept past them in a rush. I could not bear to see it. I would visit my turret window at the top of our stairwell. It had been the first bit of happiness I had felt in Tintar, seeing those views of sea and city laid out before me.
Desperate for the cool air of the window, I trotted up the stairs, my mind and body tired. I knew the dining hall would be bustling. I was not hungry enough to weather conversation. That is why I did not hear them until I was on the landing before the last set of turret stairs. Thank the gods, only one of the sconces was lit, the flame guttering and weak. Thank the gods the darkness of early winter days and the wind outside concealed my approach.
Helena was sitting on the third step up from the landing. Thatcher was hovering over her left side, his mouth on her neck, his left hand at the handiwork of undoing the front of her dress, her stays and pulling her shift down. He exposed her small breasts over the square neckline and whispered in her ear.
She lifted a half-hearted hand in protest, but he pulled the garments down farther. Her eyes fluttered close, her head tilting towards him.
“Please, dove,” he said. “Please do not hide my little rosebuds from me.”
Her face slackened and her resistance dwindled to a squeak in her throat as he took first one and then the other in his mouth.
“Do you like my mouth, bride?” he asked, replacing it with his left hand.
She arched up under his palm, her head falling backwards on the step behind it.
“Answer me, little dove.”
“Yes,” she exhaled. “Yes.”
“Do you want this mouth betwixt your thighs?”
She thrust her chest upwards again under his hand. “Yes. Please.Please.”
Making quick work of it, Thatcher planted his knees on the first step, pulled all of her skirts up to her waist, even those gathered under her, so that her bare body slipped onto the cold step beneath and placed his head between her legs, kissing her softly on her sex.
She let out an ardent whine, hoping for more.
He sat back a little and put his hand where his mouth had been and then inside, pumping her slowly with his fingers, kissing her inner thigh with his mouth.
Her gasps were anticipatory. They had done this before.
“Your man makes it good for you, doesn’t he?”
“Ye— Yes,” she said, rocking her hips with his hand.
