In Which Raia Has to Know

February 7, 1171

"How did you get in here?" Falidor's words were mumbled and barely coherent, and other than a hasty glance, he hadn't even looked at her. It was like he was trying not to address her, even though there was no one else in the room. Like he was talking to a ghost--like he wanted to believe that she wasn't even there.

And yet, if only to prove her presence, Raia felt compelled to answer. "I have a spare key."

From his place on the couch, Falidor sighed, though he continued looking forward. "Figures."

The stillness of his frame was unnatural--not a twitch or rustle so far as she could detect. She wished he would stand, slouch, tap his boot, anything, but no; he sat in conscious petrification, much like a statue if only statues might think. She didn't know how much longer she could last, just watching and waiting. She scurried past the dinner table and into the living area, cementing herself in front of him. If this had become a battle of wills, it was not one she cared to forfeit. "Look, you can't just ignore me for two months and expect me to take it lying down."

At last, he moved; it was only a slight turn of the head, but at least it was something. "Raia..."

"Don't you 'Raia' me." Why was he making this so difficult? Yes, he was a married man--and yes, he was only a gentleman and she was his lord's daughter--and yes, she couldn't call herself an expert on such things--but she somehow got the sense that a kiss like that wasn't meant to rot in the memory's obscure reaches like the details of some dull conversation. "You've been avoiding me for long enough and we need to talk--and we will talk, whether you like it or not."

Weary, Falidor wrung his hands together; Raia couldn't help but notice that he'd discarded his wedding band. "Your father will kill me if he ever finds out."

Raia groaned inwardly. She had not come for his excuses. "Do you want me?"

His eyes widened; she had to marvel how even in such dim light they could remain so blue. "What?"

"Look, I just have to know." Raia crossed her arms and stared at him. She and her two youngest sisters had all inherited their grandmother's thick lashes, but so far, she was the only one who had learned to put them to good use. "Do you want me or not?"

He looked up, his gaze washing over her as if trying to see past her, to determine where she ended and where the rest of the world began. She did not think she had ever been looked upon like that before; she did not think she could say she disliked it. "So much."

"Then my father should be the least of your concerns." She took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet. At her age, she was already taller than most women, but she doubted she'd ever be quite so tall as Falidor; he wasn't exceptionally big, but he was still a man. She wondered how it had taken her so long to notice that. "My father knows what it is to want someone you aren't supposed to have."

"So idiotic desire is a sacred thing to you, then?" He gave her hand a gentle squeeze; it was refreshing to feel his touch without that searing ring to mar it.

Raia nodded. "It's the sacred thing."

Sighing, Falidor released his hold and let his arm fall to his side. "I guess I can't argue with that. Still, people will be talking if word ever gets out."

She shrugged. "And if it doesn't, they'll find something else to talk about. Just to hell with them, all right? Forget about people talking--what do you want?"

"I already told you."

He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her nearer, his hand resting at the small of her back. He kissed her on the cheek, then exhaled, drumming his fingers against her opposite shoulder blade. "When did you get to be so beautiful?"

A small laugh escaping her, Raia smiled. "I could ask you the same question."

Falidor smirked, then tossed back his head and sighed. "This is so wrong."

Undaunted, Raia edged nearer, her body pressing further and further into his until she could at last rest her head on his shoulder. She nudged down his collar and nipped him softly on the neck, just as she had often seen stable boys and young guards brand their sweethearts before returning to their posts--and who was to say it was wrong for her to do so? "I don't care."

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