Chapter One Hundred Seven

When Aravis awoke the next morning, she spent a long moment wondering why there was a pit in her stomach. The sun that was streaming in through her bed curtains was golden and warm, the product of a northern summer, and Little Mews was curled up asleep in the small of her back, a little ball of heat.

Then she remembered, vividly, the curve of Cor's eyelashes as Lady Pwyll, her hand on his freckled cheek, kissed him.

She rolled over in her bed, kicking against the tangled sheets, and buried her burning face in her pillow. There was nothing left for her to cry out - it had all come out the night before - but her body felt like it was wringing itself out anyway, twisting and cramping and seizing. Her head ached. She felt so stupid. How had she, Aravis tarkheena, duchess of of Glengow, allowed herself to get into such a position? She had risked her reputation and her honor—for what?

What was she to do now?

That, indeed, was the question of all questions. It had risen to the top of her consciousness over the course of the night, and now it was all that was left—the cold reality of next steps. She had realized by now, as she swung between grief and anger, disbelief and indignation, that somewhere, despite all her preparations to the contrary, she truly thought that she and Cor would sort it out, that they would somehow end up together and all would be right again. She had not thought, truly, that she would someday leave Anvard for good. But now it seemed that she had no other options. What self-respecting wife would allow her to stay? How could she stay and still respect herself? It would be tortue, death by a thousand cuts, to live so close to Cor even as a gulf yawned between them.

Little Mews was stretching and grooming himself, the raspy sounds of his tongue on his soft grey fur loud in the silence of Aravis's curtained bed. Somewhere outside her bedchamber, Aravis could hear low, murmuring voices—probably her maidservants debating whether to wake her for tea or to let her sleep. Had Lady Lyn told them what was the matter when she had left to care for her own children in the wee hours of the morning? Not likely—she was too circumspect by far—but Aravis couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

She rubbed her face against the linen of her pillow, trying to find a cool spot. Against the blackness of her eyelids, she kept seeing the back of Lady Pwyll's head, Cor bending toward her, the flash of her handkerchief in his hand, the look of his fingers splayed out across her back as they danced. And yet—she groaned—she would still be expected to play her part at this, the beginning of the Anvardian social season. How could she have forgotten the dozens of parties, dinners, teas, hunts, and dances that would fill the next two months of high summer? And she would have to be at his side for most of it, or for at least the next few weeks. It would be very much commented upon by the capital, who had been deprived of the royal family at season events for almost two years, if she was not.

"Fuck," she said into the silence of her bedchamber. It helped a little.

Despite everything, her stomach had begun to growl. Grimly, she pushed into a sitting position and rang the bell.

Her ladies-in-waiting were quiet as they brushed out and plaited her tangled hair and sturdily laced a kirtle of soft, mustard-yellow linen over her loose white smock and stays. Kid leather shoes, a kerchief around her neck and tucked into the top of her bodice, and a dab of her red perfume behind each ear went on equally silently. They didn't talk, either, as they ate their breakfast in the sunny sitting room. Aravis was glad for the silence. Her head still throbbed, and she needed all her focus to maintain her composure as she buttered her toast. It seemed so silly, this genteel and quiet room surrounded by the trappings of nobility—heavy, polished wood furniture, tapestries sewn by long-dead queens and princesses, fine bone porcelain dishes and silver cutlery, thick, luxuriant carpets from Calormen and beyond. All of these beautiful things that didn't belong to her. Truly, she had very little to her name: she had land, income, a title, and the accordant privileges, but nothing in the way of small possessions. It all belonged to the king, and she was utterly dependent on his mercy. If not him, her brother. If not her brother, who?

Lady Lyn returned as Aravis was finishing her second cup of tea, brewed sympathetically strong and black by Eilonwy, with little Alis in tow. After she had coached her daughter through the requisite curtsying and honorifics, and done the same herself, Lady Lyn said apologetically, "If you would be unbothered, my lady—"

"Not at all," said Aravis, pushing back her chair as Alis, eyeing the breakfast goodies still on the table, approached slowly.

"Alis would not hear of me coming to see you without her," said Lyn, sitting nearby as Ethelind brought her a cup of tea. "She was quite put out that her father and I came to the castle last night and made her stay home with Nursie. You think yourself quite grown, don't you, little miss?"

"I am grown," Alis said petulantly, and Aravis obligingly pulled her into her lap and proceeded to fix her a plate of chocolate toast and orange slices after receiving a nod of approval from Lady Lyn. Alis ate happily, and gabbled to Aravis a rather stream-of-consciousness narrative about the toast and fruit. Aravis replied to the best of her ability, but mainly listened and interjected with the occasional exclamation of surprise or encouragement. The weight and warmth of the child balancing on her knee was grounding, and she couldn't help but hold her tighter than she might otherwise have. Alis didn't seem to mind.

Lyn looked on with pleasure. "I have never heard her string such a series of words together, my lady."

"There is quite a lot to talk about these days," Aravis murmured.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"Tired," she said truthfully. She was unwilling to go into much more detail, knowing her ladies were listening, but there also didn't seem to be much more to say. Or do, even. "Just tired."

"Mother's orders are to take a walk and a nap today," Lyn said. She seemed to be speaking to Alis, but Aravis knew the instructions were directed at her, and she accepted them without complaint.

After an hour of tea, gentle conversation, and very little else, Janey arrived with her appointment book in hand. "I will come back, my lady duchess," she said upon seeing Lady Lyn.

"No, my lady," said Lyn, standing to curtsy. "I would not monopolize Lady Aravis's time any longer. Come along, Alis. You must curtsy to Lady Janifreda when she comes into a room, because she is a countess. And what do we say to noble ladies?"

Alis, who had curtsied unsteadily, proceeded to say, "Good morning, my lady."

Janey was bright red by this point, and curtsied nervously to Lyn and Alis as they departed. "Gol," she said, coming fully into the room, "I'll never get used to that. I know as well as they do that I will never be as refined or ladylike as women born into it!"

"Sometimes we feel the same way," Aravis answered.

"You must be trained well to hide it as you do."

Aravis couldn't help but smile at this as she poured Janey a cup of tea and motioned for her to sit. "Did you enjoy yourself last night?"

"Oh, I did," Janey said with feeling.

Aravis remembered having seen her and Lord Darrin ducking away into the gardens, and was relieved, however silly it might have been, to hear that at least someone's love was proceeding smoothly. "Have you decided when you'll be married?" she asked, in a tone she hoped would convey that she understood if Janey didn't want to discuss it.

Janey's smile widened, and she sipped her tea before saying, "My father wrote back just this morning, granting his permission for it. Da—Lord Darrin will approach His Majesty today to ask if we may marry in at the end of August."

"Oh, that is only a month or so from now!" said Aravis. "We have much to do!—I'm sorry, I presume too much. You will have much—"

Janey was laughing. "No, you were right the first time, milady. I was going to ask you for your help as soon as the king gives his permission. I can't rely on my mother to help me, as I might have if I'd married the judge my father had been threatening me with in good old Hiddlestown! I've no idea where to start."

"Well, you must be married here at court," said Aravis. "There is simply no place more suitable. Boldenhal, perhaps, but Darrin's ancestral home is days away from here. I will speak to the king about it directly, if it pleases you both," she said over Janey's token refusal.

"A court wedding," said Janey, fanning her reddening face.

"You must ask Darrin what he is willing to spend. From there, we must find you a dressmaker, maids to help us make your trousseau, musicians, entertainers—"

"I heard of a dancing bear in the city," Janey blurted, and Aravis laughed.

"You shall have a dancing bear, my dear friend, if it is what will make you happy."

Janey downed the rest of her tea and beamed as Aravis refilled her cup. "It is hard for me to imagine being any happier than I already am," she said. "I am soon to be wed to a good, kind, and handsome man who adores me, and whom I adore in return—I will see my family soon—and I am looking ahead to a life I imagine will be busy and happy and full of love."

Aravis smiled, but as they clinked their teacups together and sipped in silence, her aching heart wrenched within her. She had never once expected to be happy to plan her wedding, much less to a man she loved—but now the thought appeared, unwanted and unexpected, that if she had been a better person, she might now be in Janey's place, excitedly planning a life with Cor at her side. With it, that thought brought searing pain and a desire to go back to bed.

"Did you have a nice night?" Janey asked.

"I did," Aravis said after a moment's pause. It wasn't a lie. It had been a wonderful evening, until the end.

"You danced quite a few times with Cor," Janey went on, and Aravis looked at her, trying to see if there was a hint of slyness on her face. Perhaps there was.

"I always do," she answered. "It's my duty."

"It didn't seem like you considered it an imposition."

Aravis's hackles raised, but she bit down on a sharp word of reproach. Janey was only teasing her, as friends do, and snapping at her would only wound her. Aravis, who until recently might have wished others to be as miserable as she, now resisted the habit and only said, smiling, "He is a good dancer, and we are old friends. Of course it was pleasant."

"I always forget just how long you have been friends," Janey said, her tone now more conversational than hinting, though Aravis still couldn't tell if it was her own insecurities she was seeing, rather than her friend's ulterior motives. "Cor really should dance more. He is so fine at it. But he is much stingier with his dances than Corin!"

"He does enjoy talking more than he does dancing."

"He asks me to dance once every time there is an opportunity," Janey went on, "but Corin dances with every lass at least twice. Don't get me wrong," she said, laughing, "Corin is a lovely partner, and I am soon to be a married woman so it is a moot point, but Cor is so much more elegant in his movements!"

Aravis was amused despite herself. "Did he slip you a guinea to say such things in my hearing? Next thing you'll be telling me is how much better-looking than Corin he is."

"But wouldn't you say so?" Janey answered, and this time, Aravis knew she was not imagining the suggestiveness behind this seemingly innocent topic of conversation. Fear and humiliation flooded her body like alternating streams of hot and cold water, and she couldn't keep the ice out of her voice as she replied,

"I imagine you came here on business. I wouldn't wish to keep you from the rest of your day."

Janey almost concealed her surprise at Aravis's sudden change of demeanor, but graciously, she said, "Oh, indeed—I almost forgot," and set her teacup aside as she pulled out her appointment book. "You've received a number of invitations for this week, and I wanted to confirm with you what you will and will not be accepting."

Aravis nodded, relieved to be changing the subject but feeling guilty now for how she'd done it. As Janey ran through her plans for the next few days, she wanted to ask at each turn if Cor was going to be there—but she couldn't find a way to ask it without arousing suspicion, especially not after what she had just said. The only way through the next few weeks of society dances, dinners, promenades, parades, and concerts was, she supposed, through it.

It was not the end of the world, though. She probably could use the excuse to refresh old friendships and start new ones, if her future was not one that would be lived out in the palace itself.

"Have I received a letter from Calavar?" she asked Janey suddenly, interrupting her sidebar on the likelihood of the rainy season coming early.

"No," Janey replied, startled. "I read everything you receive, and nothing has come from Calormen at all."

Aravis wondered if her brother had ignored her request to return to her ancestral home altogether. She wouldn't have minded a clear "no"—though it would certainly mean a chance of plans—but to not answer at all was the height of rudeness.

Although, a sinister voice in the back of her head whispered, perhaps he's heard of your missteps in the south.

"Do I have any empty days in the next week or two?" she asked.

Janey flipped through her book. "All you have on Tuesday a week from now is a luncheon with the Galman ambassador."

"Could we reschedule that? I'd like a day to myself."

Janey made a note.

"I would also see the chief steward today at his earliest convenience.".

"I will tell him myself," said Janey. "What have you decided to wear to the Countess of Engelby's dinner?"

"The crimson damask with gold beading," she answered. "And a white kirtle."

"You do look lovely in crimson and scarlet. Few Northerners do! You will turn heads tonight."

Aravis resolved right there to do just such a thing—no matter how sore and wrung-out her heart felt, she would look and act like the jewel in the court's crown people kept telling her she was. What could it hurt?

"I'll ask the king about your wedding as soon as he gives Darrin permission," she promised Janey as her friend stood up to take her leave. "If you want me to."

"I want you to," Janey said, coloring. "Oh, gol, I can't believe I'm saying that! Me, marrying in the palace of the king!"

Aravis grinned despite herself, and as Janey flounced out, settled back with her tea. Not a moment later, the steward arrived, and Lady Léan showed him in. He was carrying his books under one arm, and Aravis poured him a cup of tea and motioned for him to sit.

"How much did last night end up costing us, Sir Ewain?" she asked after he'd made his obeisance. "Did we have to tap into the more expensive wine?"

"No, my lady, thank the Lion," he said, opening the books and showing her the numbers. "But, my lady, I cannot allow myself to leave your presence without making my concerns evident to you."

"Concerns?"

He grimaced, and his frown lines seemed to radiate back across his bald head, rippling infinitely. "There simply is not enough money to support this household as we have been accustomed."

"Are things really that bad?" Aravis asked, sitting forward. Anxiety settled like a vise around her stomach. "Surely not."

"They are, madam," said the steward soberly. He laid before her account book after account book. These were the official records of the king's treasury, heavy and officious-looking and written in precise hands. "If you see here, many great houses whose taxes and tributes kept this kingdom flush have been in arrears for some time. Usually, in times of great financial distress, a monarch may make concessions and allow for service or land forfeitures to suffice, and His Majesty has been doing so. But-"

Ewain gulped, and Aravis could see a sheen of sweat forming on his temples. This must be agony for him to have to bring to her-stewards had been abused and imprisoned for less by more capricious rulers. She quashed her own growing fear and said somberly, "My dear sir, you may be honest with me. You must. I think you have been trying to tell me what you are about to say for some time, and I did not hear you. I am listening now."

He nodded. "His Majesty has not collected on what is due the crown, my lady, and the Treasury has been operating at a loss for years now. We are down to what is essentially pennies in His Majesty's storehouses. If we were to be invaded, heaven forfend, I fear we would not have the funds to raise and furnish a proper army."

"Lion's mane," Aravis said. She was sweating now, too, but coldly.

"There are a variety of factors at play, my lady, if I may speak frankly."

"Please."

"Bandits in the high mountains have slowed trade in Anvard to a trickle. Telmarine raiding parties are harrying our farms along the western borders, and we all know that is the region whose grain feeds us through the winters. There is, of course, the issue of uncollected back taxes and military service, and also the growing scourge of free cities-usually a monarch tolerates a few, as long as they pay their taxes and maintain the peace, but-"

"They have not been doing so," Aravis said. She thought angrily of Shadesport, that terrible and dark place. "I am well aware. Has the season not brought more funds?"

"Some," said the steward, "as families open their city houses and pay their fees along with the money flowing into our trades, but not nearly as much as usual. The weather has been unkind, and of course there was no way to know if His Royal Highness would be back in time to participate, so little was planned in advance."

He means I was not here to plan it, Aravis thought bitterly. "Of course. I hadn't thought of that. Aslan's wounds," she cursed, unheeding of the steward's look of shock at the words coming from her mouth. "I will have to speak to His Royal Highness. I'm not sure what is in my power to do."

"Little, other than economy," the steward agreed. "But yes, perhaps he-" The man left his sentence unfinished, but Aravis knew what he meant. Perhaps Cor could finally appeal firmly enough to Lune. The crown prince alone could do something about a crisis of this magnitude. Holy Emperor, but kingdoms had collapsed over less. The numbers in the account books swam across her vision.

"Do we cancel our parties and balls?" she asked baldly.

"I think that would do more harm than good at this point."

She tapped on the pages. "Is my household grown too bloated?"

The steward hesitated, and Aravis, now impatient, said, "Just tell me, Ewain."

"Rather, your ladyship," he said. "You have so many maids and undervalets and manservants and composers on retainer and seamstresses and other nonessential people on your payroll that could be eliminated."

"You know the outcry and scandal that will result if I fire them," she answered.

"Yes."

"So what should I do? Face the scandal? Close up my household?"

Ewain's brows raised quickly. "If I may, my lady-have you considered taking a house in the city?"

"Me?" Aravis said, startled.

"Yes," the steward replied, speaking quickly now as if he worried he'd lose his nerve. "Rather than reside here, in the palace, you could take out a fine house. There are many for rent these days, and you could downsize and economize your household in a way the royal family cannot. I imagine the noble families in the area would appreciate your presence, which would legitimize and raise the values of their property, and no one would question it then if you had to dissolve your staff here."

"But I am a maiden," Aravis answered. "Wouldn't that raise a scandal in itself?"

"Not if you hired an older woman-a widow, perhaps-to be your companion. It is quite respectable. Many families have done so. My own sister-in-law is housekeeper for the earl of Sturwyk's daughter, and the widow of a younger son of the Baron Nesbit stays with her."

"Wouldn't I lose my diminish at court?" she asked softly. "By being so removed."

"Perhaps in another court," said Ewain, "but not, I think, in this one."

She appreciated his gentle response. "I don't know, Ewain," she said, closing up the account books. "But you've given me quite a lot to think about."

"Yes, your ladyship," said Ewain, standing, as he recognized his dismissal.

"For now," she said, "begin to water the expensive wine when it is used. You have my permission to dismiss the two worst performers in every department, but hold back on hiring their replacements for now. Any non-essential building work on the castle should be halted. Can you think of anything else we can do in the short term?"

"The stablers and the kitchens were hoping to purchase new stock this summer."

"I suppose we'll need that come winter," she mused. "But set a strict budget this time-send Mrs. Norris to me if she digs in her heels. I don't want any champion dairy cows coming under my roof if the runners-up will suffice."

"Very good, my lady," said Ewain, bowing deeply. Aravis could almost see her reflection in his shiny pate.

"Thank you, Ewain. Please send Lady Léan in on your way out."

Léan, when pressed, confessed she did not know if Cor was awake or not. Aravis sent her to find out and sat at her table, her tea gone cold in her cup, and mused on everything she had just heard. How much was she even paying her ladies-in-waiting-who suffered her whims and absences but otherwise did little else ladies-in-waiting were supposed to do. Such as knowing if the royal family were receiving visitors yet.

Aravis was beginning to feel a little sick. She knew she needed to speak to Cor post haste, but as the alarm from Ewain's news began to fade, the pit in her stomach from the night before returned to take its place. Unbidden, the sight of Lady Pwyll's face pressed up against his appeared in her head, and anger and raw humiliation welled up inside her. How could she have been so foolish as to think that, after everything she had done to him and the shameful way she had treated him, he would still be in love with her? As if he were a porcelain doll, to be dropped and kicked under the bed and then to stay there until she was ready to play with him again. She wished there was a way to say she was sorry-she understood now how he must have felt when she cooly wished him goodbye and pushed him away, as if he meant nothing to her. He had meant something. He had meant the world to her, and that had frightened her beyond belief. But now, poised on the precipice of something even scarier, she wanted no one by her side but him-but it was too late.

"Did you want me?"

Startled, she jumped a little at the sound of Cor's voice. Tea slopped over the rim of her cup and soaked her skirt, and Little Mews, who she hadn't known was sleeping under the table, skittered out of the room with his ears pinned back.

"I'm sorry," he said as she dabbed, flustered, at her dress. The tea had soaked the linen immediately, making it nearly translucent. She felt suddenly, unpleasantly naked, as though Cor would be able to read all her thoughts now. "I heard Léan tell my manservant you were asking for me."

"I just wanted to know if you were awake," Aravis said, refusing to meet his eye. She didn't trust her voice otherwise. She busied her hands with the tea things, clattering china and silverware. "I needed to talk to you about something important."

There was a surprisingly silent moment before she heard the rustle of his tunic and doublet as he took a breath. "May I sit?"

She nodded wordlessly.

He pulled out a chair across from her and lowered himself into it. Only then did Aravis let herself look at him, through her lashes. He looked almost as tired as she felt. Had he been up all night with- she pushed the thought out of her head. He might look tired, but she would never get sick of his sweet face. Somehow, the exhaustion matured his face, gave it a gravitas his freckly, fresh countenance sometimes lacked. His hair flopped over his forehead, curling lazily in the summer humidity. His puffy eye from yesterday was now a full-blown black one, but it didn't look too painful.

But then she remembered that he was not, and now never would be, hers again, and the remembrance of the loss seared even deeper than its first realization.

"Is this about last night?" he asked.

Aravis's spiral into despair was halted unpleasantly as her stomach clenched. "What do you mean?"

He looked over at her, and she dropped her gaze after a half-second of looking into his big, blue eyes. "Last night. You were crying."

She lied instinctively. "No, I wasn't."

"With Lady Lyn. I saw you."

"I know you did. But I wasn't crying. I didn't feel well. Too much sun."

"Aravis, you're from Calormen."

"We don't have humidity there," she retorted sharply.

He frowned at her. "Have it your way, then. What do you want?"

Peevish now, she considered telling him to forget the whole thing, but swallowed her pride, and said bluntly, "I've just met with the steward. He showed me the books. Cor, the financial situation is far worse than we've been led to believe. He told me we are one declaration of war away from complete ruin."

Cor was sitting with his hands folded over his mouth and chin, so she couldn't quite read his expression, but his brow furrowed. "What did he say exactly?"

"'We are down to pennies in His Majesty's storehouses'."

"Impertinent of him."

"That's what you care about right now?" Aravis said, her temper flaring. "I asked him to be frank with me. And it's a good thing he did. Because I'm starting to think no one is brave enough to be honest with your father. And you are set to inherit a kingdom crumbling into the abyss if you don't do something. One war, one bad harvest, one deep winter, and it's all over. You'll be king of the dungheap, if you get to be king at all."

"You're treading awfully close to treason, Aravis," Cor said, his face reddening, "if you haven't crossed the line already."

"Treason?" she said, shocked. "How is it treasonous for me to tell you how to save your legacy? How could you say that to me?"

Her voice cracked on the last sentence, and she grabbed her empty teacup just to give her hands something to do. It felt like she was being torn to shreds.

"I didn't mean it, Aravis, I'm sorry," he said. "But you know that if anyone else said what you are saying right now, that would be it for them."

"I'm no-" She stopped to take a deep breath, but lost her cool on the exhale. "I'm not just anyone!"

He reached across the table to take her hands. The feeling of his flesh on hers was unbearable, and she recoiled so swiftly she dropped her teacup onto its saucer and it cracked. "Leave it," she snapped as he leapt up to try to help. "If you don't want my help, fine. But I'm going to do what's in my power."

"I thought you were leaving," he said, a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

"I am," she fired back. "But my brother doesn't want me, so I must content myself here."

"That's nice," he said sarcastically.

"My household spends more of the Crown's money than it brings in. The steward said I could ease the burden on the budget a significant amount merely by moving my household out of the palace."

"What?"

"Oh, relax," she said bitterly. "It's not like you're making it hard for me to leave right now."

Cor was red in the face, and his brows were furrowed. "But how is it-respectable?"

"It's perfectly respectable," said Aravis, who suddenly realized she had made up her mind. "I'll hire a widow as a companion. But it's nice of you to suddenly care about my reputation after dragging me unchaperoned across the kingdom for a year."

"A widow?"

Aravis was properly annoyed. "Or a spinster, or a dowager-it doesn't matter."

"What about Jahangir?"

This was such a non-sequitur that Aravis didn't respond immediately. "What does Jahangir have to do with this?" she said at last, unable to suss out the connection.

"Aren't-didn't he-"

She sighed impatiently.

"Aren't you getting married?"

She knew the look of confusion and distaste on her face was unladylike and slovenly, but it was how she felt, and there was no taking it back now. "We certainly are not. Who said we were?"

"No one," he said hastily.

"You must tell me."

"Really. No one. I just-I saw-"

"Lion's mane," she exclaimed, her impatience getting the best of her. "Stop pussy-footing around and just speak frankly, Cor!"

His nostrils flared, and he said a little louder than was necessary, "I saw the two of you go out into the garden last night. And then I saw you kiss his cheek when you came back in. I assumed you'd decided to accept him."

"That was indeed an assumption," she said indignantly. "We are not getting married, and in fact that is what I told him last night."

Unwillingly, she remembered the rest of their conversation. I have loved the crown prince since I met him. Is it that obvious? She wanted to curl up inside herself, the heat of humiliation creeping up her cheeks.

Cor was glaring at her like it was somehow her fault he'd gotten the wrong impression. She glared back steadily, refusing to let him see her pain. "So it was not him who hurt you," he said at last.

"No," she said. It was you. But how could she blame him? He did not love her anymore. It was not his fault. He owed her nothing, and this was what happened when she was careless. She should never have kissed him. They might have rubbed together happily enough for the rest of their lives, distantly unaware of their feelings for each other and therefore unhurt.

"Well, good," he said, still frowning. He sounded distracted. "I won't have to challenge him to a duel, then."

"Heaven forfend," she said, and was unable to stifle a laugh. "You'd kill the poor man. A warrior he is not."

Cor laughed at this too, and for a moment things were sunny-but then she remembered everything, and she withdrew. "What are you going to do about the treasury?" she asked.

Cor sobered. "I suppose I will have to speak frankly with my father."

"Have you not been?"

"I've been trying to avoid it. He seems so frail. But now I suppose I have no choice."

Aravis decided she had best not say anything, and quietly, Cor pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you for telling me," he said in a tone that suggested he wished she hadn't. "I hope that your search for a situation goes well."

Startled, Aravis began to realize that perhaps this was really going to happen. She began to sweat a little bit. "Thank you."

"Are you going to be at Engelby's tonight?"

"Yes."

"Jahangir will be there. Do you want help avoiding him?"

"It was amicable," she said, standing as well. "But thank you."

"See you tonight, then."

She nodded. Cor bowed slightly, straightened his doublet, and walked out. For a moment, Aravis wanted to call after him, but his name caught in her throat, and instead she watched him leave. Tonight would be painful. But then again, she thought as she lowered herself back to her seat, perhaps it would be better to have her home separate from this one. She would still see him regularly, but it wouldn't be constant, in and out every day. That might help.

But then again, she thought, she really did like seeing him.

And she put her head on the table and cried.

A/N: Lol hi guys.