MB Chapter 32

The Prityl Marquisate sat at the center of the capital. Lanthe Prityl, its future mistress, opened the door to her father's study.

The Marquess was at his tea, unhurried. His eyes lifted slowly to meet hers.

"What did you need, Father."

"I hear Marquess Bethelgius has filed suit against a number of individuals."

Lanthe's expression soured at once.

"Rumors about his sexual preferences, his origins, his appearance—gossip is gossip, but it comes in no shortage of varieties. Thanks to the lighter tongues among our conservative young, rather a number of them are about to find themselves hauled into court."

The Marquess set down his cup. His expression remained pleasant.

"It is the natural order of things for the low and the incapable to prostrate themselves at the feet of those who are capable and noble. I raised you to understand this, and was raised to understand it myself. But, my dear child—these are matters that ought to be handled with a rather greater degree of elegance. And discretion."

"Father."

"I left you to your own devices and you've been running wild as a colt. I've tolerated it thus far, as long as you kept to certain limits. But not this."

"Apologize."

The word arrived quietly. A sharp cry cut between her lips before she could stop it—

"Father!"

"Going there in person to bow your head wouldn't suit House Prityl. A written apology in your own hand, however—that would suffice."

"A lawsuit of this scale can be suppressed easily enough!"

"What you said wouldn't hold up in court to begin with—too ambiguous to prosecute cleanly. It will fall apart on its own. All I require is that Prityl not appear to stand in opposition to Bethelgius."

Not yet.

"The Marquess is not the crude and ignorant man you take him for. He is quite capable, in fact."

"...You're saying he has uses."

"Beyond what words can convey."

The Marquess opened his hand, then closed it slowly.

Since the founding of Solaris—not once, not in a single generation—had the highest seat beneath the Emperor belonged to Prityl. The ancestral title, fixed at marquess, had been the ceiling above every head in the line.

To bring down one of the two great ducal houses and claim the vacant seat left by its ruin—that would be the fruit of it. His ancestors' long labor, and his own.

What he could not yet say to Lanthe, he turned inward, murmuring it to himself alone.

'I have waited a long time for this. I had nearly resigned myself—thought this generation too would pass beneath a name I could not surpass. But it seems heaven has not entirely abandoned Prityl.'

Something like exultation moved behind his eyes.

"Once Bethelgius has served his purpose, dealing with him then won't be too late. There is a fine blade for cutting off that man's head when the moment comes."

"You're certain of it."

"Yes. A crime so clear that even His Imperial Majesty could not shield him from it."

"Understood." Lanthe nodded, with visible reluctance. If it was a necessary thing, she could write any letter she needed to.

The matter appeared concluded. She inclined her head to take her leave—and the Marquess said, almost in passing:

"You'd do well to find yourself a new hunting dog."

"What do you mean."

"Bethelgius wouldn't strike at Prityl at this stage—there would be nothing in it for him. He'll want a presentable sacrifice to save face. Yes—I mean that Renier girl. Emily."

Lanthe had already anticipated this, and had intended to move quietly in advance. But her father, evidently, had no interest in that.

"The spectacle of running wild, believing a tiger's strength to be her own— incompetent, and shameless with it. This incident alone, she overstepped and tried to throw tea. Ten years was already using her for too long. It is time to be rid of her."

"She is mine. I'd rather not have my personal friendships interfered with—even by you, Father."

"Ha. Yours, you say—the daughter of some baron's household is yours."

'Even attachment has its proper measure.' The Marquess reached for the cup before him and threw it. It passed close beside Lanthe and shattered against the door behind her. Lanthe Prityl did not flinch.

"If you want to play at friendship, keep it to friendship alone. Drag useless things about and soil the Prityl name, and the mistress of this house might end up being someone other than you. Wouldn't it."

"Don't threaten me. I know perfectly well there is no one better suited to that position than I am."

His daughter's glare met his steadily, and the Marquess let the corners of his mouth pull into deep satisfaction. She had a certain recklessness about her—but an unbroken spirit in any circumstance was a rather excellent quality to possess.

"I won't kill her, naturally. At worst I'll dig up some impropriety and bring the family down a little. If you're that attached, pick her up from under a fallen roof and keep her. But I will not permit you to move against this beforehand. You know this, Lanthe. Prityl belongs to me."

"...I know."

"Good girl. You may go."

"Oh—and the shards will be sharp. Mind where you step."

She left the study without looking back, the parting concern contemptible enough that she nearly laughed at it.

The door closed— not loudly. But the fist at her side had gone bone-white—and it was speaking on behalf of Lanthe Prityl's fury, since she would not.

Still seething, she turned the corner toward her rooms—and met the eyes of one of the two people approaching from the far end of the corridor.

Wheat-colored hair, a gentle-seeming face. Her younger brother, Konth Prityl.

"What a face on you. Did you catch a lecture?"

"Shut it, Konth. What are you doing on this side of the house."

"Is there anything on this side of the house besides Father's study?"

Konth at the Marquess's study. He must be getting reined in for some new disaster of his own.

She was about to let the thought pass when her gaze landed on the woman standing beside him. Fair-haired, sharp-eyed, her expression dim and her face not a pleasant one—she was wearing the livery of a maid.

"I don't recognize her. Who are you."

"I am Alexia Goosfoot, my lady."

"I haven't heard that surname before."

"That's because she's a commoner. She hasn't been here long—I brought her. Father seemed taken with her, too. He called for her again today."

"Hah. Mother's barely been gone, and here we are." Lanthe moved past them both without slowing. "Nothing worth a second thought."

She offered no farewell.

She had drunk wine nearly to unconsciousness—the night of the wedding, and last night as well—and still the mornings were clear.

Goiyo Bethelgius opened her eyes as easily as ever. The man beside her had not.

Goiyo rose alone— 'perhaps he was testing her' —and let Annie help her wash and dress and have her hair put up. By the time all of it was done, Entzi had still not moved. That much settled it.

'Strange.'

She sent Annie out and sat down beside him.

The mattress dipped where she settled. Entzi's brow moved—once, barely—and then was still. Entirely still. His eyes remained closed, and the skin beneath them carried the kind of shadow that accumulated over nights rather than hours. Even in stillness he looked tired in a way that had weight to it.

Goiyo reached out before she had decided to. Her fingers found the corner of his eye—the hollow there—and she was touching someone else's face without having formed any intention of doing so.

His skin looked cold, as pale as it was. But the warmth that met her fingertips was unmistakable. Alive, of course. Naturally alive.

Her index finger had just moved over the deepest part of the shadow when she understood, belatedly, what she was doing.

She pulled her hand back—or tried to. His hand came up before she could finish the motion, caught hers, and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

He'd been awake. Goiyo looked at him with some surprise, and found heavy-lidded eyes curving into something slow.

"Seducing me first thing in the morning, my lady?"

The voice—already low—had been roughened by sleep into something lower still, and there was a quality to it that was, strangely, indecent.

It was not only the voice. The disordered hair. The sleep-laden gaze. The hands where every knuckle stood out. Even the loose nightgown. Things she had never seen before, and things she had—each small particular of him felt strange to her this morning, in a way she could not quite locate.

The feeling that surfaced was one she did not recognize. Goiyo drew back slightly.

A questioning look followed her. She managed to redirect.

"You seemed... tired. This is the first time I've seen you still asleep."

"So it is. I had quite a lot on my mind last night—I think that wore me out. I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"Not sleeping well? Is it me? Bad sleeping habits?"

"Not in the least. A purely personal matter."

Entzi smiled, a little ambiguously. He would rather she not know the personal matter included her. The deliberation had been longer than it warranted, but he had arrived—

Back at the same conclusion he had started from.

The confusion had been excessive. The problem, however, was simple.

Entzi Bethelgius had developed a fondness for Goiyo Bethelgius. Not the variety he held for Lukurue—this was deeper than that. Different in kind.

Unfamiliar, being new. It might bear some resemblance to what was commonly called a romantic inclination. Love—that was certainly not what this was.

But even so.

It was not a feeling of sufficient magnitude to constitute a problem. He had turned it over until nearly dawn, and the answer had been the same each time.

He could manage things with Goiyo Bethelgius precisely as originally intended. Which meant the result was unchanged. Whether the fondness was moderate or deeper than moderate. Whether it was warmth for a person or something more specific.

That the relationship would have to be severed, and that he was capable of severing it—both of those things remained equally true.

Once he had settled that, he found he could ignore the dregs—what had not quite resolved—well enough.

He was later out of bed than usual, but got himself washed and presentable without particular urgency. He had been moving continuously for weeks; for now, there was room to breathe.

They ate breakfast, and afterward Goiyo walked with him toward the front gate.

"Thank you for last night."

"Marking a wife's birthday is simply a husband's natural duty."

"If that is a husband's duty, I ought to see to my own in return."

"That would be a husband's duty, not a wife's."

"Next you'll be citing one's duties as a human being in general. When is your birthday?"

"The first of April—though truly, you needn't bother. As you know, your husband is not a man who lacks for anything."

"If you truly wanted nothing, I don't think you would have mentioned your birthday at all. Noted, regardless."

His wife's rhetorical gift was improving noticeably. Entzi experienced something he could only describe as a mild alarm.

His influence, perhaps. Though that seemed unlikely as an explanation—Kolave had been with him for years, and Kolave's verbal facility remained, in his honest assessment, thoroughly unremarkable.

"The registration period is opening soon, so I've gone ahead and entered us both for the hunting competition. Goiyo Bethelgius and Entzi Bethelgius."

"...Didn't you say you would make me a handkerchief?"

"Cheering from the sidelines and competing both—there's nothing wrong with doing either."

"I suppose not."

They stepped through the front gate. A gust of wind moved past, and the traces of cologne still on Entzi's coat drifted over to her.

He caught the faintest twitch at Goiyo's brow, and immediately cast a no-scent spell.

"My apologies, my lady. I forgot to see to this coat."

"It's fine, but— you shouldn't wear cologne to the hunting competition. You might attract something unpleasant by accident."

"A standard human fragrance shouldn't cause any real trouble. And in fact, even if I were wearing a scent specifically designed to attract monsters, I'd be quite all right."

"No. The Ramona Forest is a protected wood, ordinarily closed for a reason"

"Ah—so what you're saying, my lady, is—"

"Keep nature natural."

Whether he was meant to take pride in her faith in his capabilities, or in her commitment to preservation—Entzi blinked, caught somewhere between the two.