Look Beyond What You See

“Well, it seems we’ve come across some free time,” Dmitri observes as we leave luncheon. “Perhaps you’d like to go for a ride? We haven’t visited Excalibur in quite some time. I fear he’s getting lonely, and I’m convinced that he’s under-exercised.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” I agree immediately. There’s nothing I’d like better than to get out of that stuffy mansion. And besides, some time together, away from Giacomo and the problems he causes, could only do us good. My conversation with Malina yesterday convinced me of that much, if of little else.

That decision made, Dmitri leads us through the fastest route to the stables, and in next to no time at all we’re aboard Excalibur and on our way. Fresh air embraces us and fills my lungs, bringing joy and relief in equal measure. This is the freedom I’ve been longing for. Excalibur and Dmitri seem just as thrilled as I am to be leaving the mansion behind us in the dust. If only for a while, we can be together, with no added pressures, no strings attached.

Is that really what you want?

Go away, strange voice inside my head. If he and I are to be married--

Is that really what you want?

Does it really matter? Better him than any other of my acquaintance, anyway.

But will he make you happy?

When I learn how to see the future, if indeed that is something I can do with my magic, I will be able to answer that question. Until then, begone, and stop asking useless questions.

“Are you all right, Aerys?” Dmitri asks, close to my ear. I shrug in reply. Cantering the way we are, I dare not turn around so he could hear me, and I would not shout my thoughts to the wind in the hopes that his ears would also catch them. “You seem more pensive than usual.”

“Just thoughts. Nothing to worry about,” I answer, hoping that he’ll either hear me or give up and wait until we reach our destination and the ground, wherever that might be.

I’m far from surprised when “wherever that might be” turns out to be the garden with the stream where Dmitri painted me. Somehow I knew we would come here, that he would want to bring us close together again as much as I do, or think I do. Dmitri dismounts before I have a chance and helps me down from Excalibur’s back in quite a gentlemanly fashion. Somehow things are awkward between us, as though we’re meeting for the first time, in spite of the undercurrent of familiarity that flows between us and the sparks that fly, although comparatively much subdued, every time we come into physical contact with each other. For a while we just stare at each other, unsure of how to handle this situation. When was the last time we were alone together and not angry?

“How did dress fittings go yesterday?” Dmitri asks finally, as a means of starting a conversation. I wish he’d picked something else to talk about.

“I have several pinholes in my hips and legs,” I answer honestly with a slight laugh. Dmitri arches an eyebrow, somewhere between amused and displeased. “The maids doing the pinning of fabric that is apparently necessary for preliminary dress fittings were absolute imbeciles. Malina promised I would have better ones next time. I really enjoy Malina’s company. We had a wonderful conversation yesterday afternoon.”

“Good. I’m glad you like someone on your staff, at least, and that she’s attending to the fitting maid situation so that I don’t have to.”

“Why would you have to?”

“No one I care about will be subjected to needless needle pricks on my watch.”

We share a laugh over that, though I am struck by the reminder that he cares about me. Somehow that doesn’t make sense, though I don’t know why that should be.

“I appreciate that,” I tell him quietly once our laughter subsides. A flicker of hope in his eyes. “What did you do yesterday while I was being wrapped in itchy white fabric and jabbed with pins?”

“I was painting. Father didn’t demand that I go over fresh news dispatches and political briefs, for once.”

“Quite a blessing, indeed. What have you been painting?”

“Nothing noteworthy. I’ve been uninspired, since I painted you.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an accusation of stealing your muse.”

“Maybe you are my muse, and the lack of time we’ve spent together lately, just the two of us--”

“Surely you jest! You had no difficulties painting before I came here.”

“No. But then I didn’t know....” His voice trails off. I’m torn between curiosity and fear of the words he’s left unsaid.

“If you want to paint me again, all you have to do is ask.”

“I would like that very much, more than you know, but....” Again he leaves things left unsaid, hedging. But why? He will drive me mad. Perhaps that is his intent, knowing as he does how curious I am.

“But?” I prompt gently, taking a seat on one of the larger rocks in the garden and patting the place beside me.

“After reading the letter my mother received today, I fear we won’t have time for any sort of leisurely pursuit after a few days.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Her relatives are very concerned about the situation in Russia right now. They’re convinced that war will break out, and they think it is absolutely the last thing that the Russian people need. A revolution was threatened a decade ago, when the Russians lost their war with Japan, and they fear it will break out this time, if war breaks out and goes badly.”

“So we will be spending more time training? Is that why you will not have time to paint?”

“That might be part of it, but the larger part is that my mother’s family is sending one of their younger girls, a second cousin of mine or something, to live with us for a while. They think she will be safer here, and my mother has been wanting them to send someone to help--how did she phrase it?--make you more fashionable.”

“You have to be kidding,” I say, unable to come up with anything more profound in the face of such unwelcome news.

“I wish I was. Her name is Yekaterina, and it is my understanding that, although she dresses at the height of fashion and is in that way ideal as a tutor for you in that regard, she is nowhere near fluent in English. My mother does not have the patience to teach anyone anything, and so they are enlisting me to give her English lessons in the mornings, while you train with that...Italian tutor.”

“And you agreed to this?” I can hardly believe my ears.

“I was not given a choice, and besides, I trust you. You’ve demonstrated that you can handle yourself, and even beat him in sparring matches, sometimes. And in the afternoons, I’ll be training with him, so I’ll have a chance every day to kill him if he treats you inappropriately.”

“Wonderful. I feel so much better now. And what am I to be doing in the afternoons?”

“Lady lessons, I presume, and engaging Yekaterina in conversation, to help with the English. Depending on how your Russian is coming along, you might be more of a help to her than my parents would admit, anyway.”

“А если я не хочу так делать? Я не люблю быть принцессу.” And if I don’t want to do that? I would not like to be a princess.

“Конечно, нет. Но у нас нет выбор.” Of course not. But we have no choice.

“Жалка.” What a shame.

“Ну, да. Но ты говоришь по-русский лучше, чем я думал...” Yes. But you speak Russian better than I thought... He leans closer to me as he says this, and I can tell that something about my speaking Russian has him aroused (perhaps as much as his Russian arouses me). “И мне очень нравится.” And I really like it. Lips on my ear, sending tingles down my spine. Sensual kisses down along my jaw as fingers turn my head, until lips meet lips. Back meets stone--how did I get here?--his body presses to mine--so warm, so firm--wild, sensuous abandon as we drink each other in from hands and lips.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers fervently as our lips separate for a gulp of air.

“We see each other every day,” I protest softly, with a giggle, as I toy with the hair that brushes the back of his collar. He rolls his eyes and brings his lips to mine again, a reminder: Not like this.

“It’s been hell, having you angry at me.”

“I haven’t been angry with you since the morning after our argument on the roof.”

“I couldn’t tell. You’ve seemed colder, closed off.”

“So have you.” No need to voice my fears that he, too, was having second thoughts. I wonder, if we both decide this isn’t what we want, can we get out of it? How can you even be thinking such things at a time like this?

“I’m sorry. I only meant to give you space--”

“As soon as you started treating our tutor with appropriate courtesy, all was forgiven, all anger dismissed. That was all I asked of you. I’m not the sort to bear grudges.” More kisses, light and joyful, across my cheeks and neck, skimming my collarbone.

“Thank heavens. I couldn’t bear it if you were.”

“I expect you get enough of that from your mother.”

He rolls his eyes. I shouldn’t have said that. I ruined the mood. Although, maybe that’s for the best, considering the hot trembles that still run rampant inside me. If the mood had continued, how far would we have gone? My vision of our dance together in this very garden floods my memory for a second, closely followed by other imaginings, from the ball that celebrated our engagement. A dark room, candlelight and the scent of lilacs and roses, skin on skin, just us two--

“Always something,” he mutters, moving off of me so that both of us can sit up and resume some pretensions of propriety. “Either an interruption from someone looking for us, or you have to say something like that....”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Someone has to keep us within the bounds of propriety.”

"That was hardly within the bounds of propriety.”

“And you minded so much,” he returns huskily, pulling me against his side with one arm around my waist. “You would certainly object if I wanted to kiss you again....”

“Most ardently,” I tease, my eyes telling a different story. His eyes glint with lust and mischief. His lips just brush mine, teasing, hot breath fanning out across my face. My magic pulsates and squirms with anticipation within me, pressing towards him, begging for something I cannot permit, not yet.

“I think I’ll save it, for the next time you’re angry with me,” he decides abruptly, pulling away from me and leaving me cold and stunned, seated alone on the rock.

“What makes you think there will be a next time?” I ask, slowly rising from my place.

“It’s inevitable, with the changes to our schedule that Yekaterina will bring with her.” Ah, yes, that unwelcome change to what was becoming a somewhat bearable routine. “Promise me that you will befriend her.”

“Befriend the girl meant to turn me into a fashionable princess? I suppose I can find a way to do that without taking her lessons to heart.”

His lips curl into an attractive smirk. “I would expect no less from you.”

I only hope that Yekaterina makes it possible for me to keep that promise.