Page 66 of Six Wild Crowns

“Do you want me?”

She kisses him hard in reply.

“I am a good king. A good husband. It’s all worth it.”

She doesn’t think he’s really talking to her, but she says, “You are the best husband. The best king.”

His hand snakes downwards and she closes her eyes. Think of her. Think of her glorious black hair. Of her long, dextrous fingers.

“Look at me. You never look at me.”

Slowly, Seymour does as he says, locking eyes with him as he goes to work on her. She is the perfect wife, and the perfect wife knows what can happen when a man feels rejected by the woman who’s supposed to love him.

He stays in her bed all night, mounting her when the mood takes him, then rises early to hunt wildfowl in the marshes. When Clarice comes to wake her, Seymour is sitting up in bed already, her knees drawn to her chest.

“I don’t want to go swimming today,” she tells Clarice.

“No,” Clarice says. “I’m here to pour you a bath instead.”

In silence, they pull a tub into the room and fill it with jug after jug of warm water. When it is ready, they produce two vials from their pocket and pour a trail of oil from each into the bath.

“Cloves, for healing,” they explain. “And frankincense, for heartache.”

Clarice helps Seymour into the water. “Would you like me to stay with you?” they ask.

“Yes, but I don’t want to speak,” Seymour says.

So Clarice tells Seymour tales from their homeland. Of their family, that spends every summer on the high seas, then returns to their island in Feorwa for winter. Their trade is in knowledge, which – if it is the right knowledge – can be more valuable than any gemstone. Clarice tells Seymour of the traditions of Feorwa – thehadasceremony, where those ready to do so choose whether they wish to be man, woman, or neither. Seymour has heard these tales before. Their familiarity comforts her.

Eventually, Clarice lapses into silence, their tales spent.

“I miss you, Clarice,” Seymour says, her eyes closed. The long years stretch between them – the bright friendship of their childhood, the intimacy of their youthful years and then the cool civility of the last decade. Clarice says nothing.

“What did I do?” Seymour says.

“Nothing, my lady.”

“Please tell me.” Seymour has wracked her memory for the deed that pushed Clarice away. She’s certain that it was somethingshedid, but she’s too dull to understand what it was.

“Would you like one last story?” Clarice asks. Seymour nods.

“There was once a lady, very sweet she was, and very young. Her father got her a servant. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but the young lady and the young servant soon became fast friends, on account of the lady being a lonely type, still grieving her mother’s death, and the servant being sick for their homeland.”

Seymour opens her eyes. Clarice is watching her.

“The servant thought that nothing could ever come between them. They knew how lucky they were to have happened upon alady who treated them as an equal. They loved that young lady, as a friend, as a lover, as a spouse. They would do anything for her. But then one summer’s day, something happened.”

Clarice pauses. Seymour touches their hand. “What happened to the lady and the servant, Clarice?”

“Nothing of significance,” Clarice says, turning their hand over so that Seymour’s rests in their palm. Seymour likes the feel of the calloused skin. It speaks of purpose. “The two of them were picnicking on the lawn. It was bright outside, and hot, and they kept squinting because of the sun. The lady told the servant to fetch a parasol.”

Seymour cannot remember this moment at all, although she remembers that it was summer when Clarice grew distant and broke off their intimacies. Doesn’t that illustrate Clarice’s point perfectly? Her inability to have noticed that she was altering her only friend’s entire perception of their relationship?

Clarice continues. “The servant did as they were told. They went to fetch the lady a parasol, and they smiled and they carried on talking. But inside, they understood.”

“Understood what?”

“That the lady was just that. A lady. And they were a servant. And pretending to be equals from time to time wouldn’t change that. It would only bring them heartache.”

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