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"Violetta," she said across the desk two days later, pushing the nerves from her voice, "I need you to source a bottle of Balmachie '56."

"Your Majesty?"

"For the king," she answered without looking up from her papers, "He's had a tough week and I'd like to treat him. What pleases King Rupert more than vintage scotch?"

Her assistant smiled, "Of course."

"Could you make it happen today?" She asked, but her assistant was already on her feet.

"I'll take one of the cars, if that is alright. I have a dealer in mind," Violetta smiled, "But he's in Mertz."

"Of course," Clarisse agreed lightly, eyes still on the paper, "Of course. Thank you."

She watched her assistant go and reveled, finally, in the silence. She pushed her seat from behind the desk and went to the window, her hand protectively across the tiny bulge of her stomach. Looking out the window she saw him them, Joseph, walking with her husband as if he was both confidant and employer. She wondered then what he'd think of her. She wondered what they both would think.

Making too much of an effort would seem contrived so she settled for removing her shoes, her suit jacket, and padding down the hall towards his private study as the sun fell. He liked her like this, she knew, because he liked her just a little askew; not perfectly tailored and coiffed. He would appreciate the spontaneity, the drunken fumbling of two adults hell-bent on some sexual satisfaction. That was what they had always been on the rare occasion he'd coaxed her into his bed. It occurred to her then, as she padded along soft marble, that she had only recently made love for the first time. She had scooped up two crystal glasses from the side board and, with them clinking between her fingers, she knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Me."

She heard him shuffle to the door and was pleased to see his smile as he opened it for her. At one point she had thought she could force herself to love him because of that smile. She had always loved his smile but she'd never quite loved him.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" He motioned her in with his hand and laughed when she held up the scotch.

"Oh," she placed the two glasses down on his desk, "You've had a hard week. I was once told it was a wife's job to relax her husband following a tough week at work."

He laughed again, "Have you met my wife?"

"Mmmm," she offered him a glass with an ambitiously large measure and clinked hers against it.

He examined the bottle, "Oh I am being spoiled."

"It's been a long time since we got drunk," she smiled, feigning a sip as he took a very genuine, and large, one and settled on the sofa, "We used to do it much more."

"When we were young," he laughed.

"Hmmmm," she curled up on the seat across from him, "When our boys weren't the terror they are now."

Rupert smiled but it was tight, "Pierre's back next week."

"I know," she waived her hand, "Let's not talk about that."

"Then," he paused for another slug, "Then what will we talk about?"

"Tell me about your hard week?"

"That's boring for you."

She cocked an eye brow, enjoying the charade now that she had recalled the good factors of her husband's personality, "No, it isn't."

He examined the golden liquid for a moment, then lifted it to his lips again, "Clarisse I'm getting old. I am not fit like I used to be."

She nodded and sought solace in another false sip. She wondered if he'd notice the liquid wasn't lessening despite her feigned drinking.

"Aren't we both old?"

"No," he smiled, "If anything, you've got even more gorgeous."

She scoffed and curled her legs under herself, "I was never gorgeous."

"Yes…you were. I just…." He took a sip, "I never noticed it."

She smiled, "Listen, we have made the best of what we've got. Haven't we?"

"We've tried. I'm sorry I got stuck in about Pierre."

She thought about it for a second, "You were right to feel angry."

There was a soft, gentle silence then. She had forgotten, just for a moment, why she was there and it was nice, it was safe and pleasant. When love had never figured in their equation she had at least had this.

"When did we stop talking?"

She asked into the quiet.

"I don't know."

"No, nor do I."

"I'm sorry I'm a real prat sometimes."

She laughed a little, "I suppose then I am obliged to apologise for being an utter bitch."

He laughed too, "I suppose."

"I suppose," she repeated, watching him refill his glass.

His cheeks were growing red – a sure sign of impending inebriation – and the cruelty of her own intentions was not lost on her. Like any good pragmatist though, she would push through in the determined way that had gained her such cold infamy.

"It has been so long," she said quietly.

He tipped his head behind his glass, draining the last slither before filling up again. When you are wealthy, he once told her, you should drink scotch like water.

"What has?"

It doesn't matter."

But the seed was planted.

A bottle of ludicrously expensive booze later and she was fumbling with the buckle of his belt as he clumsily unhooked her buttons. She closed her eyes against the bitter smell of alcohol and fresh, earthly soap that clung to him like the stench of wealth did too. She tried to imagine other hands – rough and large and infinitely tender – but it was as if she'd already forgotten what it meant to be worth something.

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