one and two and one {2012/12/12}
Reagan Chives is a stellar example of a Chives Wife. Whether or not that had been her original ambition was unimportant. She’d been the Two who had caught the eye of Abracham for his eldest son, and that had been the end of that. If she had to be this, she’d be the best at it.
Twenty years ago, that had meant making a painful choice. It had been the only moment of hesitation in her life since the day Iollan had taken her hand in his and squeezed tight enough for the new wedding band to bite in at her skin. She rarely thought of it now. That chapter had been closed-tight. She is the wife of a Chives heir, the mother of the Head Butler of the Castle Spades. That’s all that matters.
There’s not a single thought in her head about Twenty Years Ago when her son-one of two children, Feilim rest in peace-comes to find her. Her smile, although brief, is completely genuine as one hand lifts from setting the crystal back into its cupboard to squeeze briefly at the Five’s arm.
There’s no hum of acknowledgement from the young man. There’s no quiet click of his tongue or brief press of his fingers to her back. That has her pausing. “…what is it, Declán?”
For a moment, he can’t speak. It had been such a simple thing, really. Just a passing comment. Nothing to cause a Fuss about. And yet…
He’d spent all of Tuesday evening watching the Joker. He’d listened to her voice. He’d smoothed carefully over the curve of her jaw. He’d looked Properly into her bright, sparkling eyes. Piper did look just a bit like him. But under scrutiny, she looked… well.
A good deal like Feilim.
But the Chives family doesn’t have girls. There have been one or two in the last dozen generations, perhaps, but as a rule, there have only ever been boys. That’s the way things simply Are. He had had a little brother, and…
“…what is it, Declán?” His mother’s voice is more insistent this time, just a touch like the old edge she’d had in his childhood to urge her children into line before their Father came to Inspect them. For a half second, he feels the dry, painful terror that had always washed over him at the measured tread of his father’s step approaching down a hall.
His gloved fingers close tightly around his mother’s elbow. She’s relaxed, trusting in his grip-until he speaks. “…who is she, Ma’am?”
And as much as Reagan never spares a thought for Twenty Years Ago, she knows instantly exactly who She is from the quiet look on her son’s face.
His fingers tense at her silence. For half a second, he sees the flash of Panic in her eyes he associates with his Father. He can’t stop himself letting his fingers squeeze tighter anyway. “Who is she?”
“Felicia.” Her voice is barely a whisper. There’s no explanation, no apology. No life in her eyes as she stares up at her son. “An’ I-had wanted her t’ be Phillipa, but- Declán-”
There might be more words. He can’t hear them. He can’t hear anything. Everything’s static. Everything’s static and the soft, distant laugh he remembers from nearly a decade past echoing in his skull while he reels.
Somewhere, a crystal glass shatters against the counter. Somewhere, his mother is pleading in a hushed panic, fingers grabbing at his arms and cheeks as he struggles to get away from her. There isn’t a fight. There aren’t voices beyond his mother’s whispered scrambling that isn’t quite an apology.
There’s barely a ripple in the machinations of the Castle Spades as Declán Chives locks his door and falls briefly to pieces.
Twenty years ago, that had meant making a painful choice. It had been the only moment of hesitation in her life since the day Iollan had taken her hand in his and squeezed tight enough for the new wedding band to bite in at her skin. She rarely thought of it now. That chapter had been closed-tight. She is the wife of a Chives heir, the mother of the Head Butler of the Castle Spades. That’s all that matters.
There’s not a single thought in her head about Twenty Years Ago when her son-one of two children, Feilim rest in peace-comes to find her. Her smile, although brief, is completely genuine as one hand lifts from setting the crystal back into its cupboard to squeeze briefly at the Five’s arm.
There’s no hum of acknowledgement from the young man. There’s no quiet click of his tongue or brief press of his fingers to her back. That has her pausing. “…what is it, Declán?”
For a moment, he can’t speak. It had been such a simple thing, really. Just a passing comment. Nothing to cause a Fuss about. And yet…
He’d spent all of Tuesday evening watching the Joker. He’d listened to her voice. He’d smoothed carefully over the curve of her jaw. He’d looked Properly into her bright, sparkling eyes. Piper did look just a bit like him. But under scrutiny, she looked… well.
A good deal like Feilim.
But the Chives family doesn’t have girls. There have been one or two in the last dozen generations, perhaps, but as a rule, there have only ever been boys. That’s the way things simply Are. He had had a little brother, and…
“…what is it, Declán?” His mother’s voice is more insistent this time, just a touch like the old edge she’d had in his childhood to urge her children into line before their Father came to Inspect them. For a half second, he feels the dry, painful terror that had always washed over him at the measured tread of his father’s step approaching down a hall.
His gloved fingers close tightly around his mother’s elbow. She’s relaxed, trusting in his grip-until he speaks. “…who is she, Ma’am?”
And as much as Reagan never spares a thought for Twenty Years Ago, she knows instantly exactly who She is from the quiet look on her son’s face.
His fingers tense at her silence. For half a second, he sees the flash of Panic in her eyes he associates with his Father. He can’t stop himself letting his fingers squeeze tighter anyway. “Who is she?”
“Felicia.” Her voice is barely a whisper. There’s no explanation, no apology. No life in her eyes as she stares up at her son. “An’ I-had wanted her t’ be Phillipa, but- Declán-”
There might be more words. He can’t hear them. He can’t hear anything. Everything’s static. Everything’s static and the soft, distant laugh he remembers from nearly a decade past echoing in his skull while he reels.
Somewhere, a crystal glass shatters against the counter. Somewhere, his mother is pleading in a hushed panic, fingers grabbing at his arms and cheeks as he struggles to get away from her. There isn’t a fight. There aren’t voices beyond his mother’s whispered scrambling that isn’t quite an apology.
There’s barely a ripple in the machinations of the Castle Spades as Declán Chives locks his door and falls briefly to pieces.