“The duchess, she gave us something, made a spell,” Neil said.
“Yes,” Fastia replied. “Yes.” Then she looked up boldly. “And I am also quite drunk, though I do not care.” Her brows scrunched. “Well, yes, I care, but I don’t.”
She moved toward him, then, or at least so it seemed, and he must have reciprocated, for in the next instant he was looking down into her face and her eyes were inches from his, her lips so near he could smell her breath. Much of him suddenly didn’t care what happened, either. Her arms were wrapped firmly about his back, and her head tilted.
He felt Elyoner’s spell overcoming him, and could think of no good reason not to surrender and kiss Fastia, feel those lips against his, and let the emotions coursing his blood have him.
But there was a reason. He knew it.
He pushed her gently back, and her eyes suddenly filled with hurt.
“You will not have me?” she asked.
“I … think I cannot,” Neil replied. Speaking the words felt like eating shattered glass. Seeing her expression was worse.
“I am a young woman,” Fastia told him softly. “I am a young woman married to an old man, an old man who does not care the least that I am a woman, much less young, though he finds his sport with those who are even younger. I am so unhappy, Sir Neil. The closest I have come to happiness has been in our conversations these last two months. I want more of it, now, while I don’t care, while Elyoner’s spell has me.”
Then she began to weep, which was unfair. It meant he had to reach for her again, to try to brush away her tears.
“Archgreffess—” he began.
“My name is Fastia. Just Fastia. At least call me Fastia.”
“Fastia, you are the daughter of my queen.”
“I know who I am,” she said, her voice suddenly angry. “Saints believe, I know who I am. Day in and day out I act my part and keep my place, like a vine trained to climb a trellis, like a dog taught to fetch slippers. I never forget myself, I never sin—” Her expression went suddenly ferocious, and she hurled herself at him. This time he was unable to resist. Her lips closed upon his. With her tears on them, they tasted like the sea. “Just this once,” she said into his lips, as they kissed. “Just this once.”
They fell fumbling to the bed, her dressing gown falling over him like wings as she kissed into his throat, and for a time there was no thought, only sensation and a crazy sort of happiness. But when much of her flesh was bare against his, and their lips had moved from neck and throat to other regions, his heart stopped him again—or at least the tiny bit he still owned.
“I cannot,” he said. “Fastia—”
She pulled away from him, sitting up. The moonlight was stronger now, and she looked like a saint hovering above him.
“I do wish it,” he said huskily. “But I cannot.”
Fastia stared down at him unreadably for several moments, and then she smiled wanly. “I know,” she said, patting his cheek. “I know. Neither can I.” She swung her leg over and gathered her clothes back about her. But she did not leave.
“May I lie with you a moment?” she asked. “By your side?”
“That you may,” he said. In truth he wished she would lie there all night.
She settled next to him and fastened her eyes on the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m terribly embarrassed. I’m really not like this. I’m never—”
“I’m the one to apologize,” he said. “The duchess warned me about her drug. I thought I was prepared to fight its effects. But that’s when I thought she was coming, and not you.”
Her face tilted toward him. “Is this true? You have feelings for me?”
“I did not know it until tonight. Or admit it.”
“Perhaps, then, it is just her spell.”
Neil smiled faintly. “Do you really believe there was a spell?” he asked. “I have my doubts.”
“So do I,” Fastia admitted. “Tomorrow we shall know, each alone. But we will be ourselves again, either way. I do not think we will speak of it.”
“Nor do I. But only know, if you were unmarried, and I of proper station—”
“Hush. If wishes were teardrops, the world would flood, Sir Neil.” Her eyes did glisten with teardrops, and they spoke no more.
In time, when her breathing became regular and quiet with sleep, Neil rose, gathered her in his arms, and started toward her chambers.
When he opened the door, he saw a figure standing in the hall.
“Lady Erren,” he said stiffly.
“Sir Neil,” she replied. “Do you need help delivering that package?”
“Think no ill of the archgreffess, Lady Erren,” Neil said. “She was not in possession of her senses. Any blame falls on me.”
Erren shrugged. “Come. Let us put her in her right bed.”
They took the sleeping Fastia down the hall and placed her there. Despite Erren, he paused to look at her dreaming face, so youthful in the light of the candle. Then the two of them quietly left.
Back in the hall, Erren examined him. “You did not do the deed,” she said. “You walked that way, but did not open the door.”
“How can you know that?” Neil asked, both astonished and somehow grateful that Erren knew the truth.
“I know,” she said. “It’s my art to know such things. Not that I would have disapproved of your bedding Fastia, Sir Neil, not as an act of itself. Saints know she needs that, needs someone like you. Maybe even needs you, specifically. I have watched this family’s philandering for most of my life, and I no longer have a moral opinion on it. But, Sir Neil, you are sworn to the queen, do you understand? You cannot be distracted by love. If you need a body to press, one can be found, and discreetly, and I will think none the worse. But you cannot be in love.” Her eyes narrowed. “Though it may be too late for that, saints pity you. But we will see. An enemy might have walked past you tonight. That mustn’t happen again.”
“I understand, Lady Erren.”
“And, Sir Neil?”
“Lady.”
“You are quite right. The only spell Elyoner used on you was suggestion, and the only physic was alcohol. In the future, remember the effects both can have, will you?”
“My lady, I will,” Neil replied, deeply ashamed.
The next day, Neil donned his armor and went down with the queen to breakfast. Elyoner was already there, a little bleary-eyed but smiling, wearing a dressing gown of gold lamé trimmed in black mink. She greeted him with a little smile, which quickly turned to an exasperated frown.
“Oh, pish, Sir Neil,” she sighed.
Neil felt naked beneath her gaze. How could she know? Did everyone know?
The queen didn’t. “What have you done to my knight, Elyoner?” Muriele demanded mildly. “What mischief have you been up to?”
“Not enough, by the looks of him,” Elyoner grumbled. Then she brightened. “Well, each day brings new hope.”
As she spoke, her servants brought platters of boiled eggs, soft white cheese and fried apples, clotted cream, scones, and persimmon marmalade. Elseny came tripping excitedly down the stairs dressed in a vivid blue gown, followed by her flaxen-haired maid Mere.
“What entertainments have you planned for us today, Aunt Elyoner?” she asked.
“Boating on the Evermere, I think,” the duchess replied, “and quoits in the orchard meadow.”
“Out of the question,” Erren said.
“Agreed,” Neil said.
“Mother!” Elseny protested. “It sounds delightful.”
Muriele sipped her tea and shook her head. “I think this time I shall defer to my keepers. I fear I have already strained them too much by bringing us here.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” Neil said.
“Yes, praise the saints,” Erren grumbled.
“But my dear,” Elyoner said, frowning. “It’s all planned! I assure you, there is no danger, here on my lands.”