In the Wake of the Ruined (The Siren Mage, #2)(18)
“I don’t want her as my—” I cut myself off, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Markis grinned like I was being coy. “I’m no great success in marriage, as you know, but what you have done with these contracts seems a prudent thing to do for all unions. Let her know what she’s to expect. Keep her from getting too wide-eyed and demanding. You’re saving yourself a tremendous headache.”
For a moment, all I could do was stare. His severance from his wife had been a brutal, drawn-out, and public affair. If my memory served, he’d been a prodigious ass through the whole of it. “You’re speaking from experience, I take it,” I said through a tight jaw.
He adjusted his own dusky blue coat in the looking glass. “Lady Gabros and I were a love match, as I’m sure you remember. But it proved harder to tend the flame than I’d anticipated. Perhaps if I’d told her what to expect, as you have, things between us might have turned out differently. You’ve removed all expectation. You’ll be happier for it.”
Happier. I nearly laughed. I had never felt so strangely, simultaneously bursting with fury and utterly hollowed out. The musicians started their playing in earnest, and I felt the first notes of their song—the one Imogen and I had once danced to—pour through me like a Mage’s draught.
It burned, ached, as I envisioned the piercing gold of her eyes. I remembered the way the candlelight had gleamed bronze across her dark hair, how she’d smelled earthy and sweet, like lavender oil and jasmine. She’d taken up the entire room, looking inevitable, even in that Gods-awful gown. I could almost feel the phantom curve of her warm, firm waist in my hand.
I curled it into a fist as if I could grab hold of her.
Markis went on, mindless and too familiar. “But on the brighter side, it doesn’t hurt that the princess is a pretty thing. Makes the agreement a little more bearable, no?” He smirked. “Less likely to tire of her quickly.”
There was no keeping the acidic bite from my voice. “Is that what happened to you and Lady Gabros? You grew tired of fucking her?”
Markis winced. “No. Not entirely, Your Majesty.”
“What then?” Glowering, I crossed to the center table, where my capelet and crown sat.
He shook his head, clearly uncomfortable now. “I… I tired of other things.”
“Of what?”
“Her nagging, Majesty,” he said, quietly, with a new tension. “She wanted my time. I found her need for attention to be greater than what I was able to give.”
A jealous rage beat through me. Markis had had the woman he’d claimed to love—all of her. Then he’d disposed of her, quickly and callously. I forced my crown atop my head. “Perhaps it wasn’t a love match at all, then, Gabros.”
He straightened his gold-threaded doublet, defensiveness strengthening his voice. “I did love her once. I couldn’t get enough of her. I wanted to be with her every second. Wanted to touch her, feed her, bathe her.” The smug way he tilted his head made me feel like a na?ve, lovesick adolescent. “But I’ve learned that is simply what new love is like. It’s a vase of fresh-cut flowers. It’s breathtaking and bright and changes the whole room, but only for a time. It fades eventually. It rots.”
I was still for a long time, my head full of crushing thoughts. That Godsdamned song still played, the notes forcing their way through the door cracks. It wouldn’t be wise to tell him he was patently wrong, or to let on that Eftan was right. I had altered those contracts because of Imogen, but right now, wisdom was not what guided me.
I clipped my black capelet to my shoulders. “Do you remember the name of Varya’s vines?” I asked. “From your lessons.”
Markis gave a haughty chuckle. “I don’t, Your Majesty.”
“They’re called Malvinia vines. They’re named after my grandmother. The blooms are easy to grow, but they wilt very quickly if not rigorously tended. They leave a sticky mess, but Panos used to grow the vines full of them because they were my grandmother’s favorite. When she died, and she died long before he did, my grandfather tried to stop growing them. In his heartache, he instructed other Varians to grow the vines without the flowers too. They all obeyed the command, but whenever Panos—the Great God himself—grew the vines, the Malvinia blooms always snuck in.” I adjusted the weight of my crown. “Even he could not stop himself from being possessed by her.”
Markis made a neutral sound, then downed the last of his wine. “I’m no great romantic, it seems,” he said through the faintest laugh. “You say possessed like it’s something to hope for.”
I straightened, as some emotion I didn’t care to name moved through me like a rip current. “Leave me.”
“Of course.” He tried to hide it, but I saw the spike of derision in his look. He bowed reverently, made for the door, and stopped. “It’s a pity I never met your Siren, Your Majesty. She sounds rather… singular.”
I couldn’t determine if it was a threat, but my hackles rose regardless. As Markis left, his head at a pitying tilt, a servant appeared.
The young man bowed quickly, keeping his attention on the rug at his feet, “Your Majesty. It’s time.”
I stood at the altar, barely breathing.
Halla walked slowly down the middle of the courtiers, glowing pale as a spirit. Her powdered face was pinched—from her seasickness, I imagined. Her white train was so light that even the gentlest breeze lifted it so it floated behind her like a cloud of curling mist. In her joined fists, she held a pearl-hilted dagger, tip facing down.