In Which Sparron Is Betrayed

October 8, 1173

It was a fucking perfect day for a wedding.

The June sun was shining in spite of the fact that it was October. The morning birds sung even though it was late afternoon. The autumn leaves shone their rich red-gold as they fluttered to the green grass and blue waters below, the fall gales slowing to a gentle breeze as if out of some divine sense of courtesy. The ceremony had gone off without a problem and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves at the reception, dining at a table set with a splendid feast and dancing to the stylings of the finest musicians in the kingdom. To top it all off, the queen had gone into labor that morning and she and the king were therefore unable to attend.

But the pair of them could have been seated on either side of Sparron, yapping into his ear without relent for all he cared. The food could have been rotting and maggoty and the music could have been provided by his little brothers and a set of pots. A foot of snow could have coated the barren landscape and the wind could have been ruthless. The birds could have been dead, and the sun likewise. He couldn't even be sure that he'd notice. He couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he'd even bothered coming. If he'd been smart, he might have faked an illness or broken his leg or something. He should've known that he wasn't strong enough to handle this.

Searle--married. What a joke. The sadistic angels above must have been laughing their halos off. Well, Sparron didn't see what was so funny. Supposedly merciful God creates a vile sinner and tortures him just for the shits and giggles--like that was anything to laugh at. Perhaps he would just hang himself and be done with it all. Who would miss him, anyway? Surely not Searle--not when he had a wife. Perhaps his family might grieve, but would that have been true if they'd known any better? Sparron doubted it. No one mourned a degenerate.

The music and laughter from the next room fell like shattered glass into his bleeding ears. The knock at the door would have been a relief had it not heralded someone's arrival. "What?"

The door opened and in stepped Searle's fairytale bride, all white gown and pink flowers. Just looking at her made him nauseous, thinking about her and Searle and all their blue-eyed freckly brats. He'd never even seen her before today and he loathed her already. How dare she intrude on him like this? If he retreated to an empty room during a party, then wasn't it obvious that he wanted to be alone?

"I'm sorry. I saw you come in here a while ago and I haven't seen you since." She fiddled with her wedding band as she spoke; he wanted nothing more than to tear the damn off her finger and crush it to a fine gold powder. "Are you all right?"

Sparron sniffed. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

She didn't even flinch at the sound of the expletive. She was exactly the sort of girl Lord Severin would want for a daughter-in-law. Sparron wondered if he would have wasted her on Searle if he'd known better. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"I imagine you will whether I do or not." He was right about that; she'd seated herself beside him before he even had a chance to finish.

"You're Sparron, aren't you?"

Sparron's hand twitched. A lucky guess, no doubt. Or maybe she'd met his father previously and just assumed a relation. "And you're Arletta."

"My friends call me Lettie."

"We're not friends."

She turned and stared at him, though she looked neither shocked nor hurt; if anything, she looked like she pitied him. It was insulting. "I know you must hate me right now, but nothing's going to change. Searle and I talked it over, and I told him--"

"He told you?" The blood in his veins chilled to an icy hardness. His heart raced to compensate and his head began to spin. Yes, Searle was reckless, but to have actually told someone? How could Searle have betrayed his trust like that? Didn't he realize what he'd done? "He--"

Arletta sighed. "Please, just listen--"

"Get out."

"Sparron--"

"Out!"

Shaking her head, she pulled herself to her feet and made her way toward the room's entrance. Either she was defeated or she'd realized that he wasn't worth her time--both, perhaps. "It was nice to finally meet--oh, sorry," she apologized as she collided with another body at the door.

"No, I should have knocked," answered Camaline's voice, unreadable as always. "Congratulations, by the way. I'd say more, but I wouldn't want to keep you from your own party."

"I'll talk to you later, then."

"I look forward to it." Arletta smiled, then hurried back into the dance hall--right into Searle's outstretched arms, no doubt. Camaline watched her for a minute or so before finally closing the door behind her and taking a seat beside Sparron.

"She's pretty."

Sparron slumped forward, catching himself with a hand to the forehead. "I'll take your word for it."

There was a faint rustling as she crossed and uncrossed her legs beneath her skirts. Camaline was much for reassurance, but she was all he had; he couldn't begrudge her for failing if she was willing to try. "You're not comfortable here, are you?"

Was it that obvious? Ah hell, who was he kidding? Of course it was. "Can we leave?"

Camaline took a long breath, then rose from the couch and stepped away. "I'll tell your father you have a headache."

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