“Most people find me charming.” Isabeau’s very presence feels like a challenge, a test I shall inevitably fail.
She’s even more beautiful than I allowed myself to remember these last years. Dressed in a shirt, vest, suit coat, and leggings that hug her visibly muscular shape without becoming vulgar, she has an elegance that transcends mere beauty. Over it all, she has a houppelande. Although the coatlike garment is fur trimmed and trails to the ground, it does not look foolish on her. It tells me she was likely outside. A quick look at her red ears confirms the same.
They’d be cold if I kissed them,my traitorous mind whispers.
Her raven-wing-dark hair is cut short enough that the unruly curls threaten to rebel; one seems to be wrapping around the curve of her ear, not unlike the feathers of the raven that comes to mind every time I see her.
Her beauty is the only excuse I have for sounding so cutting as I say, “No, Isabeau, most people find yourfuture titleand your proximity to the queen charming.” I pull off my sodden-wet hat. My two thick braids drop like serpents, heavy and twisting down my back. “I am not impressed by either title or lineage, unlike most of your paramours.”
At first, I fear she’s changed too much as she simply stares at me. Then the quick temper I remember fills her charcoal-dark eyes, and she drawls, “Mostof my paramours?”
I swallow several replies. I was not intending to imply that I was still in their number, and according to court gossip, her sheets are never cold. Once, I thought she was mine. Now, I have been replaced by countless lovers.
Isabeau’s eyes are fixed on me as she lowers her voice and asks, “So you agree to be my paramour again, then? I would certainly be willing to resume kissing you.”
“Thatis your reply to me?” I force a scoffing noise to hide the laugh that threatens to escape. Verbally sparring with her does good things for my mood.
I bet exchanging sword strikes would be better,temptation whispers.
Isabeau steps closer than I am prepared to accept, and I stumble away hastily, awkwardly, embarrassingly all but falling until she grips my wrists to steady me.
In a low voice she demands, “Is that blood?”
“Probably.” I look down, hoping upon hope that it’s not faery blood. I could swear there was none. The dead man was mostly drained of his own blood. There was a little, though, in the pool on the ground.
I spot the wet mark; thankfully it’s human blood.
I hike up my skirt’s hem and pull out a dagger. Without a word, I sever the fabric above the blood. Trying to not seem as incredibly bizarre as I’m sure I must, I scour it with my eyes, trying to assure that no faery blood is there.
Contaminants!
I fumble around in a pocket for salt, fill my hand with it, and turn my back to her as if I’m embarrassed. Quickly, I toss salt on the marble floor, but not so quickly that she doesn’t notice.
“Did yousaltmy floor?”
“Never too careful,” I say, as if that answer is anywhere near truth.
She looks at me again, but this time her gaze rakes over me as if I’m vulnerable and precious to her. “Are you injured?”
“No,” I whisper. I forgot how much I liked her protective side, perhaps because it was coupled with a possessive streak that was sometimes less alluring.
“Not your blood?” she presses.
“Not mine.” Carefully, I fold the blood into the fabric and transfer it to the hand still coated with coarse salt. “Would you escort me to a fireplace?”
Isabeau offers her arm to me as if we are at a ball or something, as if I am not dressed in attire that will be sentenced to a fire when I returnhome, as if she did not shatter my heart into pieces a decade ago. A lump that might be my heart chokes me, and I sound like a weathered old woman as I manage to scratch out, “I’d rather not ruin your hem if there are other ... fluids on my dress.”
Isabeau removes her houppelande, tosses the extravagant garment onto a table, and again offers her arm. I try not to stare at the shape of her revealed without the massive houppelande. I fail instantly. Debauched and drunk are the rumors I hear, but what I see is strength and beauty. If she were intoxicated as often as society swears, her face would not be so bright and beautiful. Alcohol poisons health, and Isabeau looks healthy.
The pause has stretched too long. Seeing no other option, I rest my hand on her elbow, tentatively, as if she might sear me.
“I’ve not seen you in the city,” she says. “I watch for you.”
“My life does not often lead to the sorts of places you frequent.”
“Balls? House parties? The theater? The opera?” Isabeau glances at me, challenge clear in both her eyes and voice.
Fine, then. If she wants to discuss her carousing, so be it.
