In Which Searle Guesses the Remedy

December 8, 1179

Raia was not in attendance as the baby had a slight fever, and of course Viridis was still in Carvallon, but the rest of Searle's siblings were all accounted for. The children, of course, were off playing elsewhere, poor Roddie among their exasperated babysitters; the adults were already dancing the night away, though the evening sun still sparkled in the stain-glass windows and dinner had yet to be served. Vera and Lonriad had already danced so long and so hard that they had retired to the benches with their respective partners, but Jadin and Riona were still going strong, now dancing a closer and slower dance, guided by innate rhythm and the path of their spouses' eyes.

Searle had never danced like that. Not with that kind of focus, at least.

He glanced over at his wife, seated to the side by the heart-wrenchingly adorable Vera and Lucien. She looked tired and ill, and again he regretted begging her to accompany him. Lettie was seven months if Arydath hadn't lost her uncanny touch, but the bump was so small and so low Searle couldn't even be sure that everyone here was aware of her condition. The slouch and the deceptive gown she'd chosen didn't help. Poor girl. Still missing Prior, still suffering in silence as his broken heart kept silently beating for another, and probably still stressed from the whole plan too. How she'd managed to let him back in bed long enough to get pregnant again, he couldn't guess, but she was a much more patient woman than he ever could have hoped for.

He wished he could dance with her like that. He really did.

Sparron hadn't shown up, not that Searle had expected he would. Didn't mean it hurt any less. Attending functions where Sparron was present was torture--all the looking without looking, all the wondering if anyone was looking back, wanting nothing more than just a minute with him and knowing that was never going to happen--but it was nothing compared to the hard fact that Sparron had gone out of his way to avoid him. It had been like that before, but at least he'd known Sparron's patterns, known that he'd come around eventually, that there would come a day they'd be together again.

It wasn't like that this time. If Sparron hadn't come, then he was still angry with him. He still hated him.

And that made the sight of all his smiling, laughing, happily-in-love siblings all the more unbearable.

Perhaps he wasn't trying hard enough with his wife. Maybe Sparron's rejection was some cosmic force telling him to give up and get over the man, some means of clearing the path to marital bliss with Lettie. But what if Sparron came back to him? No matter how long it took, no matter how over Sparron he thought he was, he doubted he could ever resist. And he didn't want to harm the small, dying hope he still harbored.

"Not quite the dancer your brothers are?"

It was Casimiro. Searle wasn't sure how he'd missed him; the soft green tunic was a bold departure from his usual drab brown. "Not really in a dancing mood."

"I know what you mean. Of course, it doesn't help that my date is my sister." Catalina glowered from her chair by the dancers. Casimiro returned the glare with a good-natured smirk. "Do you think 'Nardo might let me borrow Hilla? He dances like his toenails are lead, but she almost makes that unnoticeable."

Searle glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Bernardo loose his lips on Hilla's shoulder. He'd kissed Sparron there a few times, but Sparron had always shrugged him aside. "He doesn't look like he wants to share."

"Guess not--but can you blame him, really?" Fond smile swelling, Casimiro sighed as he took in the sight of his brother and sister-in-law. "All those empty flings with tavern girls and knight's daughters alike, then he finally meets the one woman who can keep him satisfied all by her lonesome. You don't let something like that get away."

"No," Searle agreed. He hadn't guessed that one word could make him feel like such a hypocrite. "I had someone once."

"I did too. At least, I thought I did." It was the first hint of sadness Searle had seen on that face since he'd known Casimiro, but he didn't press. They weren't lovers. He'd feared Casimiro had wanted that of him, but a good long conversation like he'd never had with Sparron proved otherwise. They were friends who scratched each other's backs because it worked for them, but nothing more.

They weren't close enough for Searle to delve into Casimiro's private sorrows, nor for Casimiro to feel obliged to tell on his own accord. "All in the past, though. My more pressing concern right now is dinner and how long until it's served."

Was that a joke? Searle forced out a chuckle. "Are you that hungry?"

"No, but I am that bored."

"And food is your remedy for that particular ailment?"

"One of them, yes. But I have a few others."

Searle thought he could guess what one of them might be. He wasn't sure how he felt about the idea--sneaking off from a party with someone who wasn't Sparron--but maybe it would prove a fitting distraction. It couldn't have been worse than just standing here, drowning in all the happy. "Pray tell?"

As he thought he might, Casimiro winked. "Walk with me?"

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