Gary backed his way into his office, arms full of tax rolls, census reports, and drafts of maps from the fledgling Queen's Riders. ("Accurate maps," Commander Buri had said, "not drawn fifty years ago.")

When he turned around to face his cluttered desk and the shelves teetering dangerously with books and scrolls that stood behind it, he nearly dropped what all he carried.

"Cythera," he said, when he'd gathered himself.

His wife perched on a chair that she'd undoubtedly had to dig out from beneath a pile of documents – he could tell as much by the stack of them on the floor – and wore a surprisingly low-cut gown, with her hair free of all manner of pins or ties.

She fluttered her eyelashes at him, smiled, and shook her head, flipping her hair over her shoulders. The dark blonde locks cascaded down her back, almost to her hips - her long hair was Cythera's real vanity. He'd witnessed the process involved in washing her hair and combing it out again, and it took hours.

"Cyth," he said, setting down the stack of scrolls and papers he held, "what-?"

She got up and pressed her finger to his lips before crossing the room to shut and bolt the door.

"You've been shut in here for the last two weeks," she complained, drawing him down for a fierce kiss. "I decided it was time I visited you."

*****

When Cythera was through with her 'visit', the material that had previously occupied his desk had been shoved off of it and strewn about the room, along with their clothing.

"I was supposed to work this afternoon," he mock-complained, hunting for his shirt. "No. That's yours," Gary pointed out, "and not what I was looking for, truthfully."

"You're always supposed to be working," his wife pointed out, as she hopped off the desk and began to dress.

"Jon won't be pleased, and I needed a report for this evening."

Cythera hushed him, as she laced her gown. "Blame it on me. Send them to me, if you must." She smoothed her hands over her hair and then kissed his cheek.

"Mmph." Whatever reply he would have given her was muffled as she yanked his tunic over his head.

"Cythera," Gary protested, and she stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him, thoroughly. "Do us all a favor…."

"Everything's always the fault of the wife," she replied cheerily, before she opened the door and trotted from the room, leaving him with an office that looked as if it had been through a gale, and a pair of stockings that undoubtedly belonged to a lady draped over his chair.

When Myles stopped by an hour after said incident, the old scholar raised his eyebrows. "Whatever happened here?" he asked, standing in the doorway.

"Cythera happened," Gary replied, dryly. "I think she rather… disliked my organization."

The shaggy, bearded knight seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Is she really so destructive?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"You could say that." Gary sighed and ushered the clever old man from his office. "When I can find anything again, I'll have that scroll for you."

"Not to worry. I'm a married man, now," Myles quipped, as they walked down the corridor, "albeit an older one, but… sometimes lost work is worth keeping your lady happy."

Gary groaned, mentally. Of course, the smartest of the king's men was onto him. "Never mind the games, Myles." Even if it had been an enjoyable waste of an afternoon, he was going to have to have words with Cythera. No more barging into his office – and how had she gotten in there while he was absent, anyway?