Beside him, Rhenan made an excited noise that couldn't have possibly been human. "So you do care for this girl! Wait until Beth hears about—oh! Brother, why not simply ask Jocelyn if you can borrow the funds?"
Again, Oreum.
However... What other choice was there? Not bothering to address Rhenan's claim of him caring for the heretic, he pondered which of the two routes would leave him most bereft: to seek aid from the Lymereans, those heretical, heathen creatures better suited for the pyre or his sister, who was possibly just the same?
His lips curled and he sat back abruptly. "I cannot ask Jocelyn. I never did get her or Beth the necklace she demanded in the passage. Though in truth, that was my own forgetfulness. That, and I may have said some unsavoury things in the letter Mama had me send her yesterday."
Rhenan snorted. "I have no words for you, Tristian."
He glowered. "Do not pretend Jocelyn is at all pleasant."
"I need not pretend. Her fire is a delight, particularly when it burns you. My suggestion? Buy her that necklace and grovel upon her arrival."
"I don't grovel."
"Learn."
This was entirely ridiculous. And entirely Father's fault. Perhaps not only his fault, but the west lands' as well. They would have to be dealt with, just as Rhenan had warned, for already the distant rebellion was interfering with his personal life and expenses.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
And sighed. "What kind of necklace?"
"The blue one, I think. Sapphire? Or was that what she wanted you to get Beth?" Rhenan shrugged. "I doubt it makes much of a difference."
"And what of when Mama discovers I've been to the jeweler again? She will ask questions."
"Is it so wrong to get a welcome gift for your sister?"
"It is when it's Jocelyn," he said as he rose.
Rhenan stayed seated, toying with the boats alongside Father. "I will think of something." He then reached down into his pouch and handed Tristian the familiar satin, where inside, he could feel the small round capsules.
Tristian looked in brief concern to his father, but saw that the man was far removed from the transpiration before him, so he pocketed it quietly and shot Rhenan a thankful look.
Twirling in his hand was that of a thin, hand carved boat of birchwood, his brother poking at its needle pole where the sail hung low. "What will you do now?"
Now...? There were so many things to do and the day had barely begun, the skies casting its weeping dreariness over the castle at large. So many things to do, therefore, "Nothing. Sleep. Train. Jeweler. And draft missives."
"How boring."
At that moment, he could not have possibly agreed more.
"Well I'll remain with Father here until it's time for breakfast."
In the clutter of recent events, he wondered distantly why the idea of breakfast weighed heavier than all else in importance, but upon making his way to his bedchambers in the cold blank state where emotions and troubles did not exist, neither did his recollection of the instructions he'd bestowed upon Princess Astrid.
*****
The first thing he noticed upon returning to his chambers was that it smelled heavily of the downpour outdoors, the grey patter clawing at the windows and casting in shimmery films of the somber daylight.
Just as he'd requested, the borrowed volume from Lady Constance lay wrapped in its protective coating at the head of his bed, and beside it, the bank reports and cahier housing the documents detailing the various plots the citadel banker had reluctantly divulged onto him. The banker of whom he would be sure was removed before the day's end. And the letters upon which he was to draft to the Westland with means to remedy his father's debt. And the council he would be sure to call privately, with exclusion of his parents, to discuss actions to be taken on the two rebellious western cities. And matters of the chateau, how soon could it be built?
Assuming Jocelyn didn't price the borrowed funds at the cost of his soul, which he knew she was not above doing.
With a cumbersome sigh, he removed the wet cloak, fished around the night table for a clip and removed the disastrous, albeit dry, curls from his image, eying the volume upon his sheets while doing so.
He'd told Lady Constance his interest stemmed from concern for his future child. His interest in the volume and his concern lay beyond that. Astrid had exhibited none of the signs of the little girl named Hettie of which he'd read about in the brief passage, but that was but one example. Having explored many texts encompassing that of the deranged and tattered mind, never before had he delved into the physical aspects, that which could be traced back to simply bad breeding.
Simplicity did not exist.
As it stood, he knew very little of the princess's sire and dam.
Once again, the heavy scent of rainwater skewered his nose. Nothing within the chamber was out of place. The bay windows were sealed shut, the furnishings in their rightful order.
He stopped upon finding the double doors to the side room cracked the slightest, the purple drapes pulled closed from the other side.
Those inept maids, he bristled as he entered the room. Was no one keen to do their duty properly this day? Perhaps the rainy weather had affected them as similarly as the moon did the ocean tides, enticing them to disregard themselves for just the day.
The scent of rain became ever more potent, as did the immediate gust of wind to hush through the room, the balcony's glass panes rattling in turn.
But when he moved to irritably seal the locks to the terrace, for apparently all things had to be done by himself alone, he halted in his tracks at what waited on the other side of the glass.
The sudden cold to flush through him had nothing to do with the stormy skies. Seated precisely where he'd instructed, upon the chair out on the balcony where rain showered from the swollen grey above, was Princess Astrid. As though in some cruel twist of irony, she wore the thinner attire, intended to spare her from the heat, though now served as even less protection.
His mouth tightened as his body decided it could not move, not without staking the pike of guilt ever deeper than before. And truly, it was not so much that she sat out there in the rain at his own request, but that, as he stood staring at her unknowing figure, her hair falling in drenched ringlets, he saw not the face of resentment and anger, but the strange expression one might find upon one of the city's many stray dogs who sat in what Tristian had always seen as pitiful conditions. But their faces had never been bleak and miserable, merely... accepting. No, waiting. Waiting in their sorrowful condition for surely their masters would come looking when they noticed their shepherd gone astray.
"We urged the princess back inside, Your Highness."
Tristian didn't turn to the voice of the servant he had not noticed before. "And?"
"And she refused. We did close the terrace doors but opened its panels so as to hear her should she request anything of us."
And did she not request, at the very least, something to shield herself? Anything rather than sit there, like that, when this had been his exact command.
"What is that she is holding?"
"Blankets, Your Highness."
Very wet blankets, so wet he was unsure what she could have possibly needed them for.
"She requested them under the impression you would be joining her," the servant whispered, perhaps sensing the prince's rising anger. "She said she did not want the prince to become wet."
It was a wonder how he contained the incredulous groan. That female...
He huffed through his teeth. "Clear the room. Have many towels and a robe here at once. Leave them near the bath."
Only when he was once again alone, did he inhale deeply and make way for the rattling terrace doors, unlatching them where they readily swung open beneath the force of the winds. Rainwater attacked instantly, splashing onto the red braided rugs and once more returning him to his own rain-soaked state.
Unflinching, he stood there at the threshold, looking to h
er with what must have been confusion, but as his brother had said many times, his expressions, more often than not, conveyed none other than dismay.
Still, above the rain, he stated, "Are you trying to fall ill?"
She turned to face him and a dainty smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. The blankets remained in her lap and she looked at them briefly, appeared to consider something, then turned back to him. "I feel better than I have done in a long time. The rain is nice. I shan't get ill, Prince Tristian, but I do thank you for your concern."
How was he to take the absurd comment? If she sat wearing practically nothing, the humidity and cold and wet crawling beneath her skin and attacking her health, she would most certainly fall ill.
Shaking his head, he stepped out onto the balcony, and drew up short at her exclamation.
"No!" She sprung to her feet faster than he had imagined she was capable of moving. The already soaked blankets landed against the flagstones with a most ungraceful splat. "Don't come out here. It's wet and you might catch a cold."
He resumed his pursuit. "Do not be ridiculous. I am trying to—"
"Please! Get back inside. You'll catch a chill."
"—prevent you of the same fate," he continued over her.
She shook her head quickly and held out her hands, as if to instruct him not to take another step. "I cannot catch colds. You can. Please, please, go inside."
Apparently the cold had already gotten to her sanity.
He took her by the arm, gently but surely, never minding the instant soaking of his own clothing or the wet blankets. Upon hauling her through the doors, shutting and latching them and their panels, he spun around and glared at her. The rain warped in muffled splatters, the warmth of the indoors pervading instantly.
"Now tell me," he started, staring at the drenched figure, curious as to why she was not even shivering. "Have you lost your mind or is that nothing more than the heretic blood rushing to your head?"
For the first time he saw an expression of offense spread across her features, though the mask appeared somewhat ridiculous or lacked the severity he imagined she was aiming for when a regular patter of water dripped from the end of her nose.
"I sat out there because you told me to. My plan was to wait there, so I was doing as I was told, and when you came back, you were to stay at the door and I was to come inside. Yes, that was what I was going to do. You shouldn't have come outside." She sighed and there was a glint in her eyes reminiscent to the one his mother wore when chiding his father over something. "Your health is so important to me. You can catch colds, I cannot."
"What sinister belief has spurred on this blasphemy? Which god whispered this lie in your ear?"
"It's the tru—"
"Actually, I do not care to have the forsaken topic uttered in my chambers, for I've no doubt it will ring of every heathen relic possible. The truth of the matter is, if you sit as you were, dressed as you are, in a downpour such as that, you run the risk of becoming ill. Not to mention, now we must have you dried and fed a preventive to clear out what I am sure will be sickness otherwise. Clear?"
"How does the sickness, as you say, come out of me?" She appeared both appalled and slightly anxious about the prospect as she stared up at him. It made him all too conscious of the sort of questions she would ask come time of her and the Lady Constance's meeting and sessions. "I feel better than I have in months," she continued. "Since before I was pregnant."
"That is because the cold congests the mind. As for the sickness, we do not know if it is inside of you yet. I will have the kitchens prepare a preventive, which I stated not a moment before this one. Preventive, do you know what that means?"
She exhaled a single, exasperated huff. "You would have me take a medicine made by a cook, not a herbalist?"
Such a complicated girl. "It's soup. The herbalist will consult closely with the kitchen staff, as they have done so before. Now come."
He took her hand and guided her to the corner bath, where the rug turned to black and white swirled marble, a set of stairs enclosing the basin, three steps deep. It led to a reserved, personal area where a smooth leather chair rest beside the bath, a water-resistant chaise poised beside it. Atop it sat a number of the requested towels, and the one robe.
He pointed to the chair. "Sit."
Steadily she made her way to the indicated area and sat down with perhaps slightly more force than she intended, causing a similar sound to when she dropped the blankets.
She sniggered a laugh and slowly brought her gaze to him. "Splat!"
There was no stopping himself from shaking his head, unsure what was the appropriate reaction, and with her eyes on him as they were, he had the keen suspicion she sought some form of reciprocated humour.
Rather than oblige, he took up one of the stark white towels and dropped it onto her head to where both ends hung down to her shoulders. And then he rest his hand atop her head and tipped it back to glean her shadowed visage. Then smirked pointedly. "Undress before you catch cold, Princess Splat."
She sucked her upper lip beneath the top row of her teeth as her surprise from the change of name was registered before she nodded. The thin straps of the dress, a fine ice material that one would struggle to determine whether it was blue or grey, were pulled down, revealing the plush nipples, darker and larger than they were previously which stood to attention upon two pale mounds which had to be swollen. With slightly less ease, the dress was tugged over her middle which certainly told the tale of what they had done months prior. She stood, the sodden Princess Splat, only to ease the gown over her hips before she allowed it to drop down her pale, shapely legs. The small white underclothes were all that remained and she removed them without fuss, untying the bows on both sides and sweeping it from her form as if it were a handkerchief.
"Done," she declared and stood unashamed in her nakedness.
He came up before her and unfolded the towel atop her head, only to place the unfurled cloth back to the wet strands, gathering up a handful of the blonde tresses through the material. Wringing it softly, he watched her all the while. When a thumb massaged the dampness behind her ear, he said finally, "I did speak with the Lady Constance last evening. An insightful discussion we had."
She merely nodded at the sound of the name. "I suppose you talked about me. About us."
"You're correct to suppose this." He dried behind the other ear. "Because we did speak of you. The fate of your and our child's soul, to be precise. Turn around."
Her mouth had fallen slack as soon as he mentioned the child. Still she turned, though he imagined her expression did not change. "Is the baby alright?"
Going through the length of her mane with the towel, he deposited it on the floor and sought a new one. "It will be. Lady Constance was kind enough to agree to assist in your journey to purification, which transversely will protect the child as well."
Her shoulders slumped in relief, though surely she was ignorant of what it would all entail. "I'm glad our baby will be protected. I knew you'd look after him."
The circumstances as a whole were unsavoury and though he no doubt would find himself in fits of anger over the matter time and again after this day, the child could not be denied, nor his duty to it and the female carrying it. Though, one thing did threaten to tug his lips upward. "Him?"
She giggled. "I think it's a boy. I feel huge and I remember overhearing an old woman in an inn as I was leaving my homeland. There was a barmaid huge with child and the old woman told her that if you feel fit to burst, it's a boy. No girls are that huge. I'm still much smaller than she, but we're both from strong families. We'll have a little warrior of a boy."
Or a defective creature officially labeled retarded.
His fist tightened around the towel as he took it along her arms. "With any luck, he will not draw too strongly from his mother's side then."
"He'll be fine if he is, I am sure of it." He felt her arm stiffen for a brief moment before she relaxed once more. "Now A
lan is gone."
"If he is what? And who is this Alan?"
"If the baby does take after some of my family traits. And Alan, he is my brother. My littlest brother who died when A'zur and I were here."
Against the odds, he felt a twinge of sympathy. Perhaps because it was her who suffered, or perhaps any who lost one close to them were worthy of being mourned. "Did the cold take him?"
"The heat."
He paused at her neckline. "Thellemere receives heat?"
"Sometimes."
"How unfortunate for you. I suppose I had better keep you from the sunroom, as I did not know it could be so drastic for you inferior vessels."
A small noise left her, a noise which could not be anything but a short laugh. "It's certainly not my favourite room here."
"I imagine it wouldn't be." He wasn't sure why, but a sudden urge for mischief took over him and he lowered his lips near her ear. "Before it was a place to sunbathe with the plants, it was utilised for naughty girls who'd managed to upset their husbands. Some, I've heard, were kept there from sunrise to sunset."
Three successive ripples of giggles came from her as she shifted away briefly, then closer to his ear. "Surely those naughty girls melted?"
"Who knows? They were never anywhere to be found upon return. Perhaps they melted and evaporated." He pushed her away slightly, her back to his chest as the towel descended lower, rasping over the stiff protrusion of her nipple. "Surely they were not this large and proud the last time I beheld them."
"Ooh," was her instant reply, before she laughed again. "I told you we are having a strong boy. He needs to eat in accordance to his size. Are they unsightly?"
Unsightly, on a wicked beauty such as her? He stepped away and dropped into the sole chair near the bath, tossing the towel to the floor beside the other. "Well, I cannot be sure. Let me see you clearly."
The chuckles continued as she turned to him and permitted him a good look. She remained still for a few seconds as a blush grew upon her cheeks with each second that passed. Then, eliciting a grunt of approval from him, her hands came up either side and cupped her assets. She squeezed them together so they appeared all the more generous in size, before she allowed them to bounce to their regular, relaxed position, just as she had in the passage.
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 38