Chapter 11: Consanguinity
Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning star.
Flash, I am coming, I come,
By meadow and stile and wood,
Oh, lighten into my eyes and heart,
Into my heart and my blood!
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"Happy wedding day," Ilosovic said to Casiphia as she opened her eyes.
"Oh, my, yes," she mumbled with a sleepy smile.
"Would you like your wedding present, or would you rather sleep some more?"
"Mmm...present. Definitely present. But oh! I don't have anything for you."
Ilosovic produced a flat white box with a silver ribbon from the side of the bed. "Don't worry, my love, this gift is for both of us."
Giving him a suspicious glance, Casiphia untied the bow, opened the box, and withdrew the piece of apparel that lay nestled in tissue paper within.
"It's beautiful," she said, caressing the material and lifting the garment up to the light. "And—practically transparent."
"Yes, I specifically asked Tarrant to use this fabric," he said.
Casiphia reddened. "You asked Tarrant to make this for me? He designed this thinking of me?"
Stayne burst into laughter. "No, dearest, I went to the seamstress in the village that my mother used to commission her dresses from. But I decided whatever you threw at me for telling you that would be worth the look on your face."
"Throw something at you? You wound me," Casiphia said, surreptitiously pushing the box lid off the bed from where she had been concealing it behind her back pursuant to lobbing it at her lover's head.
"Do you like it?"
"I love it. It's beautiful, it really is. And I love you and you are beautiful too."
"As are you. And I love you dearly as well."
The embrace that followed was interrupted by a knock at the suite's outer door.
"Did you arrange for breakfast here?" Casiphia asked.
"I should have, but no, I did not. I will go see who is knocking."
He returned with a tray holding a bottle of sparkling deep amber cordial and a small but elaborate cake, accompanied by a white card embossed with only a silver crown.
"Cake for breakfast?"
"Cake for breakfast, absolutely, especially when it's a gift from the queen. It seems today is a special occasion," he said.
They had eaten their way through approximately half the cake—it was one of Thackery's more tempting creations—when they heard another knock. Casiphia went to the sitting room to answer the door, and found a weasel standing there with a sizable bouquet.
"Purple and yellow, tactful choice," Ilosovic said. "Who are they from?"
"They're Hearts-ease," she said. "That's lovely. And they're from Alice."
"Now that is a surprise," he said.
"It looks like she's getting used to at least the idea of you," Casiphia twinkled.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, with the exception of another bouquet of flowers, this time a profusion of orange and pink tulips and lilies, arriving at their quarters with a note of congratulations from Casiphia's parents. "Can't put anything by them, can you?" Stayne said.
"And another thoughtful color choice," Casiphia noted. "I would be happy with white and red, honestly, but it's kind of people to avoid any connotations they think might be awkward."
They assumed that was the end of recognitions of their new state, but when Casiphia and Stayne went to dinner that night, they found themselves showered in white petals as they passed through the door.
"I blame you!" Casiphia called to Rosalba, who did her best to look innocent of all knowledge of such preparations, this being difficult when she was laughing with such glee.
"Forgive me if I'm being presumptuous," Casiphia said to Stayne, "but it looks to me like you might be considered a part of this household now."
Ilosovic was shaking his head as if to knock something loose. "I suppose you need never worry that I will take you for granted, because I cannot even fully countenance that this is my own life."
"Someday you will be accustomed to it," Casiphia said, tucking his arm under her own and processing with him into the dining hall. "And that is a day I am looking forward to."
The applause that greeted them was embarrassing to both, which of course only inspired the guests at dinner to continue it for longer than they might have. Eventually Mirana stood at her place at the head of the table, and the uproar subsided.
"To Casiphia and Ilosovic," she said with a graceful bow of her head. "May you have a happy and fulfilling life together."
Ilosovic finally gave in, got to his feet dragging Casiphia with him, and bowed to his audience. She waved self-consciously, but couldn't help laughing.
"There we are, then," she said when dinner had finally commenced and conversations were at least nominally back to normal. "We seem to be married. Perhaps we should throw a party for our supporters."
"I am not even going to acknowledge that you said that. All I want now is my dinner and possibly a glass of wine, and then to take you back to our quarters and have my way with you."
"Spoken like a true bridegroom," Casiphia said. "And I concur wholeheartedly, as a proper bride should."
"Didn't you have something you wanted to wear for me tonight?"
"Did I?" she teased.
"Just you wait," he said.
"Mmm. Promise?"
"Promise."
After that exchange, it wasn't long before they made their excuses and left the dining table. As they left the hall, Nivens McTwisp rushed to catch Casiphia on the way out.
"I can only assume you know what you are doing, milady," he whispered to her. "And I am most pleased to see you happy. Although if he's going to be a permanent part of the household, I don't suppose you could keep him out of the kitchens? He is going to give poor Thackery paroxysms."
"Thank you, Nivens, for your kindness," Casiphia answered. "But keeping Ilosovic out of the kitchens is beyond my powers, or anyone's. I'm afraid Thackery will simply have to get used to his presence."
"All I could do was ask," Nivens said, bowing and taking his leave. From across the room, the March hare's ears were visible over the table top, drooping as he took in the news.
Casiphia and Stayne had shared many a romantic night, so far was it from him to neglect any of the details she appreciated. Rose petals, candles, sparkling wine—all the elements Casiphia could not help but respond to in this context were present, and their coupling no less complete.
Stayne stood afterwards to stretch (much to Casiphia's appreciation), and she rolled to his side of the bed, picking up the long crooked-bladed knife he habitually carried from the bedside table where he had discarded it that evening. Idly she dragged the blade up her body, stopping with the point between her breasts.
Looking up to see Ilosovic watching her, the pupil of his eye dilated widely with interest, she handed him the knife. "You can, if you like."
"No, I—" he stopped at the look on her face. "You mean that."
"I do," she said.
He reclined next to her on the bed and pressed the tip of the knife gently against her sternum. Then he met her eyes again, and she nodded, and he pressed the point just a bit harder.
The blade was so sharp she felt nothing but its coldness for a moment, and by the time the cut began to sting, it was welling with a dark drop of crimson blood which Stayne bent his head to catch with his tongue. Casiphia closed her eyes and felt her breath catch.
"Here," she heard, and opened her eyes to see him handing her the knife.
"No, I couldn't," she protested.
"Of course you can. And I want you to. What's the worst that can happen—I end up with another scar? At least this one would have a far more pleasant memory connected with it than the others."
He presented his forearm to her, and with trepidation she touched the tip of the knife to his skin. "Harder, my love," he said, and press harder she did, until she saw a drop of blood akin to her own upon his arm. She brought his arm to her mouth and tongued the drop from it. And then his mouth was upon hers, and the kiss was like nothing she had ever imagined, tasting of blood and passion and love and renewal.
Later, as they lay in the darkness in each other's arms (after Casiphia had made the expected protests about leaving blood spots on the bed, to which Ilosovic had replied that surely the staff had encountered worse, and they would not know the provenance of these stains anyway), Casiphia's sense of the absurd returned.
"It's good that wasn't a serrated knife, that would have hurt more."
"I wouldn't carry a serrated knife, it's not efficient," Stayne responded. "What? It's the truth."
"The things I learn from you," she said.