It was midnight before the legate returned. Her face was grey, and blank, as she entered the small living room. Kurt watched her from the chair by the fire. She did none of the usual things – didn't remove her cape to hang nearly – proudly – by the door, didn't peel off her boots and stand them to attention at the side of the fire. She simply entered, sat, and stared.
Kurt had seen her like this before, to an extent. After she'd defeated the creature at the docks in Serene, she'd been in shock. But this seemed… deeper. Like something at her very core had shattered.
"Hey," he cooed, gently, "Hey…"
She didn't look up. He stood, crossed to where she sat and knelt at her feet. It felt like a reversal of what had happened on the doorstep weeks earlier – she had tried to bring him back to himself with her proximity, waiting until he was ready to talk about what had happened. So he was patient, and he waited, and when she said nothing for a long while, he placed his hand on her knee and waited a little longer.
Eventually, Kurt's feet began to spike with numbness, having been pressed beneath him. He shifted his weight, and De Sardet looked up and croaked,
"I don't suppose you had the kitchens make some tea?"
He smiled and stood, flexing his ankles as he did so. He opened the door to shout down to the kitchen, but something told him that a raised voice was the last thing the legate needed to hear. Gingerly, he picked his way down the staircase to find the housekeeper tidying the last of the day's detritus away. She shot him a suspicious look, but said nothing.
"Her excellency would like some tea," Kurt said. The housekeeper sniffed.
"It'll take a while."
He nodded, "That's fine. And…" he scanned the room, "If you've anything… stronger… I'm sure that wouldn't go amiss either."
The housekeeper's frown deepened and Kurt felt his body prickle in anticipation of what was coming.
"You planning something, boy?" The way she said 'something' set Kurt on edge, but he managed to fight down his discomfort at the implication.
"It might have escaped your attention, but your lady prevented a coup today. She saved the city. The opposition had an army, and she had only two men, but she did it. And now she's tired, and shocked, and might be in need of a little something to take the edge off." Kurt heard how each of his words were clipped and short. He'd been aiming for commanding-yet-compassionate – a balance he had tried to use when teaching the younger recruits – but he was simply too tired. The housekeeper sneered at him.
"Bring something to eat too," he went on – not because he thought the legate would be especially hungry, but because he wanted to wipe the smirk from the woman's face, "Something that'll keep if she's not ready to eat yet."
He made his way back up the stairs and noticed that De Sardet had managed to remove one of her boots. Progress, of a sort. Encouraging.
"Tea's coming," he said and returned to where he had been sat by her feet. She took him being there as some sort of signal that she should resume her fight with her footwear and started to tug at her laces with clumsy, trembling fingers.
"Can I… help?" Kurt asked, softly. She nodded and he applied his attention to her shoes.
It was the most strangely intimate, private thing he had ever done for anyone.
When he had finished, he squeezed her foot in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and then put her boot beside the other one. She smiled sheepishly in thanks.
"Today can't have been easy, Greenblood."
He thought about when they'd returned to the palace – exhausted, cut and spent, but triumphant. De Sardet had insisted on helping Constantin to his room. Kurt had offered to carry the governor, as had Vasco and Siora, but the legate had refused.
"He's my kin," she'd said, with a strange melancholy pride, "It's my job."
They'd let her get on with it, Vasco choosing to return to friends at the docks to drink himself into a stupor, whilst Kurt had offered Siora his room at the little house, saying he would head to the barracks.
But De Sardet had told him no. She'd told him to wait for her at the house, and depleted though he was, he'd done as he was told.
"The coup was… not welcome, exactly, but not unwelcome," she said at last, her voice weak and flat. He frowned at that and he could see the machinations on her brow as she tried to form an answer to his unasked question, "I think that makes me a horrible person, but… so much has happened since you ran off."
He felt the accusation in her words, though there was no anger to her tone. He was also acutely aware that they had argued – wounded one another. He wanted to hear what had happened, to perhaps ease her discomfort if it was in his power to do so, but wasn't sure where to start. He found himself taking a deep breath, and saying with a huge degree of awkwardness,
"I don't think you're a horrible person. I watched you, trying to keep everyone calm. That was… noble of you. I heard you talking to Constantin about empires-"
"Don't," she pleaded, suddenly embarrassed, "I was just parroting a passage from a book I had to memorise when we were growing up... I say 'we' – obviously Constantin didn't do it."
"You sounded convincing," he ventured to smile up at her then, and she looked at him with such tenderness in that moment that his breath caught in his throat.
"Well, I hope De Courcillon didn't hear it. I don't think I'd ever live it down if he did. Every single day I asked him what real-world use we could possibly have for the things he taught us… Now I know," she was trying desperately for levity, but he could tell it was a mask. Her forced laugh didn't touch her eyes and her smile was no more than a brief flicker.
"Greenblood," he began. Then, feeling particularly humble, "Your excellency…"
She smiled warmly at that, indulgent and beautiful in a dishevelled sort of way – simultaneously older than her years and entirely innocent. Kurt drew himself up from his heels and onto his knees. His eyes drew level with hers and he could see a fine film of dirt and sweat and tears across the crest of her cheekbones. Kurt brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, the pad of his finger softly grazing her skin.
And of course, the housekeeper arrived with the tea then.
Kurt sank back down with an inaudible sigh, and the housekeeper glared at him – something which did not go unnoticed by the legate. A frown flicked across her tired face but she seemed to decide that such questions could wait.
In addition to the tea, a bottle of fiery, malt spirit sat on the tray, as did a selection of nuts and olives, the morning's unused bread – with butter – for the toasting fork by the fire, and a little bowl of speckled, hard-boiled eggs.
"Thank you," De Sardet said, and reached straight for the bottle of malt, uncorking it and drinking it neat.
"My lady," the housekeeper said with a frown, then went to withdraw. De Sardet called her back and asked for a large bowl of hot water, some very clean linens, and her finest silk thread.
"Turns out she knew my mother," De Sardet said after she'd gone, "I think she likes to think she's keeping me respectable."
There was a slight hiccough to her voice as she said this, which did not escape Kurt.
"You… alright?"
"No," she pouted. Kurt speared some bread and balanced the fork precariously by the fire, then set to peeling an egg. The work was fiddly, but it made the quiet bearable whilst he waited for De Sardet to talk. She gulped down another swig of malt and drew her knees up to her chest. She reached out to hug them in close to her body, but winced at the pain in her shoulder.
"Can I see?" Kurt asked, mashing the smooth, shell-less egg onto the toast before adding in a spoonful of butter to the mess he was making. De Sardet uncurled in the chair and shed her coat with a great deal of effort. The wound had clearly bled since she had bandaged it, the deep, wine colour of her blood having seeped into the lining of her coat.
"First, you need to eat this," Kurt pushed the toast into her hand. She made a face but he stared at her with one eyebrow raised, down the barrel of his nose until she began to pick at the crusts. The taste of the sweet bread seemed to open floodgates of hunger, and the rest of the food vanished in a heartbeat. Kurt then poured her some tea and pressed the vessel into the hand which wasn't covered in butter grease and toast crumbs, "Next, drink this."
She took a sip and he knelt before her again, this time with the simple purpose of looking at her wound. The task was a familiar one, almost comforting in how free of subtext it was.
He unfastened her hasty knot and removed the makeshift bandage. She'd been right – it wasn't a deep wound, but it was one which would open every time she raised her arm, which made it dangerous and sore. She winced as he pressed his fingers into the swelling around the cut.
"More tea," he said, "it'll help."
"It's full of sugar," she complained.
"Exactly. Between that and the malt, you'll be feeling better in no time."
She frowned and sipped from the cup, letting him assess the damage.
"I won't be. Better, that is. Not any time soon."
"Oh?" he heard her words, but didn't really take on the meaning of them until she continued.
"You remember I said that I didn't think my mother's husband was my father? It's so much worse than that…"
Kurt stopped what he was doing and tried to imagine what might be worse. His mind went to dark places.
The housekeeper arrived then with the requested items. She sat them next to Kurt and turned to the legate, "I can stay, if you like? My stitching is neat, and you wouldn't be the first person I've sewn up."
There was a tenderness to her tone with Kurt had never heard before. There was a maternal warmth to it – inviting and kind. He worried for a brief moment that De Sardet would agree to it, but the legate laid a hand on the housekeeper's, squeezed for a moment, and then said, "Thank you, but I'm in safe hands. Kurt's a fine physician. This isn't the first time he's sewn me up."
De Sardet gestured a long, thin scar which ran the length of her forearm and Kurt half-coughed, half-laughed at the sudden memory of it.
She'd been spending time in the palace gardens with Constantin and his friends – though the term 'friend' was only loosely applicable. The older children had been daring one another to climb the enormous tree at the centre of the courtyard. When De Sardet had said she could manage, they had teased her – mercilessly, as she'd told it – until she left them alone. Then, whilst they'd been busy insulting one another, daring one another to have a go, De Sardet had scaled it – quietly, quickly, efficiently.
When they had looked up to find her perched at the very top, there had been panic amongst the other children – how would she get down? Who would have to go and ask for help? But she'd managed to descend without intervention, an act of silent triumph.
She'd found Kurt afterwards, sporting a nasty gash on her arm from where she'd slipped on a branch. He'd wanted to take her to a physician, but she'd been too proud to admit to anyone else that she'd hurt herself. Her ego had been too badly bruised by the teasing as it was. And she had been terrified of disappointing her mother.
Kurt had made small, neat stitches along her arm. She'd been silent the whole while, biting down hard on a rag she'd brought for that very purpose. She hadn't turned away either – she'd watched every single stitch. Then he'd shown her how to dress the wound – stressing how important clean linen was – and she'd spent the rest of the season wearing long gloves, or tight sleeves to better hide the cut and protect her pride. It was a triumph in subterfuge.
When summer finally did roll around again and Constantin noticed her scar, she had brushed it off as something that had happened in training.
She'd been… what? Fifteen then?
I've loved you since I was fourteen. Did you know that?
Kurt felt his face flush and he tried hard to focus on the housekeeper leaving. Once she'd gone, he took a long gulp of the malt to clear his head then set to his task.
The wound had been made with a sharp blade – something of a blessing which meant it should heal quickly, if they could keep the sides of it together. And the housekeeper had brought the best silk thread. Kurt noticed she'd also brought a block of fresh beeswax, and a small pot of Yellowed Honey, and all his misgivings about her disintegrated – she'd been a wonderful appointment to the house.
De Sardet began unbuttoning her shirt then, stripping back to her stays and the minimal shift beneath them. Everything was covered in blood. He imagined she would reduce the shift to rags, but the stays were expensive, took a great deal of work to make… even her clothing would likely remain scarred by the events of the day.
"Uh…" Kurt began, trying desperately to find the right words, "I think I'm going to have to unlace your stays so that your skin sits right as I sew it. If I do it now, and then you take your stays off, the weight of your breasts might pull the thread too tight and the skin won't heal right."
His throat felt dry, but he managed to get through the entire sentence without croaking, or blushing. He took it as a win.
De Sardet nodded, then turned her back to him. He untied the knot that nestled in the small of her back and began to unwind the spiral of laces – a slow unwrapping.
Kurt wasn't exactly inexperienced when it came to stays – he'd unlaced his share during his time in the guard. On one particularly lavish occasion, involving a wealthy merchant's daughter, he'd cut the laces and presented her with a new set the following day. It had been a brash gesture which had drawn the ire of her previously undisclosed husband.
But this was different. This was…
Love, Sieglinde said in his head again. But this time, Kurt neither fought against the term nor felt ashamed of it. He leaned into it, and found a sense of calm in it, and let it wash over him. His fingers were suddenly steady and strong – gentle as they tapped against the legate's back.
When his task was complete, he lay the stays down, folding them as neatly as the stiff, shapely fabric allowed. De Sardet turned back to him and took another long drink of the malt. Kurt wet some of the linen and pulled her shift down so that the neckline stretched over her shoulder, below the wound.
"So," Kurt said, pressing the damp cloth to her bloodied skin "You said the coup wasn't unwelcome?"
"It meant I didn't have to think, for a time," her voice trembled, "Everything I am is a lie, Kurt. Everything."
He frowned, adjusting the way his weight sat on his knees. De Sardet reached behind herself and handed him a pillow, which he placed under his joints. It was a small act, but a thoughtful one, and it didn't go unnoticed.
"It's not like you to be so dramatic," he said. He'd washed enough of the rusty dry blood away to see the skin beneath. The wound was even cleaner than he'd thought it was and he felt a perverse sense of pride in the guard who'd sharpened their weapon before heading onto the field.
"It's not just my father who's not my father," she said, wincing as he scrubbed at the stubborn blood, "The princess isn't even my mother."
Somehow, though he never knew how, Kurt managed not to stall in his work.
"How is that… I mean…"
She took his hand to the mark on her face and pressed his fingers to the branches which patterned her skin.
"My parents lived here, on the island. They were bonded to it – like Siora. My father – my real father – was killed and my mother dragged back to the Congregation. I was born on board a Naut vessel and the princess adopted me. Petrus, the priest," she spat the word, "He knew. All this time, he knew."
Kurt traced the path of what seemed to be the main branch of her mark, drawing one finger along her jawline and down her slim, muscular throat. She shivered at the sensation and he gently kissed the place where the branch ended. She moaned, no more than a whisper, but he heard it – felt it.
He resumed his work, and she composed herself.
"I went to tell Constantin," and here her voice truly faltered, "But I arrived as the doctors were leaving… he has the sickness – the malichor."
The quiet of him, the distractedness, tiredness…
"Oh, Greenblood…" Kurt breathed, voice laden with sorrow for her.
"Hurry up and stitch me back together so I can cry," she said.
He nodded, dragging the thread through the beeswax to strengthen it before passing it through the eye of the needle. Then he took a clean, silver spoon, and scooped the Yellowed Honey into the chasm of her flesh, to cleanse it. Then he started to sew. He made the stitches as small as he dared to, careful not to pull the silk too tight, lest her flesh pucker. She drank throughout, though the malt never seemed to touch her.
And when he was done – true to her word – she dissolved into tears.
Kurt wrapped his arms around her and held her until her body stopped trembling. He knew he should move away, but found he couldn't. He breathed in the scent of her hair, drank in the feel of her strong body, encased as it was in his. He felt her tears seeping through his own clothing to his flesh beneath and didn't care at all.
"Kurt," she said, softly, "I want you."
He felt like his heart stopped, "I want you too, but not yet. I'm not ready."
She sniffed, loudly, and pulled herself from his arms. Then she wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded, some of her usual pragmatism returning.
"Thank you for being honest," she managed. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed at her tears.
"Gretchen…" he growled, then stopped, remembering the conversation from the cellar, "Wait. Did… Siora tell you what that means?"
She shook her head.
"You should ask her. You wouldn't believe it, coming from me."
She frowned, "I take it that's the name my actual mother gave me?"
"It's… an island name."
She looked ready to say something, but sighed and shook her head, "I'll ask Siora. Though I have to say, if I keep finding reasons I can't use a name, even I'm eventually going to run out. I can't use Petra, or Constance…. And now potentially Gretchen."
He gestured her wound again, "May I?"
She let the neck of her shift fall, revealing the mound of her shoulder. It was a red and angry gash, but clean enough, and Kurt felt satisfaction in his work.
"You should sleep," he said.
She nodded, "You can take my bed, if you like?"
"You need it."
"I didn't say I wouldn't be in it."
He shook his head, "Soon, Greenblood. But not now. I've things I should help with, at the barracks."
He offered his hand, and she took it, feigning the propriety he knew others saw in her. He helped her to her feet and let her up the stairs. In the bedroom, he lifted back the covers as she shed her breeches, then she slipped into the bed with a grateful sigh. Gently, reverently, he pulled the blankets up around her. He combed his fingers through her hair and removed the pins he could find, setting them aside on her night stand. Then he knelt at her side again, kissed her tenderly, and said,
"Your excellency."
Then he left for the barracks.
