Page 42 of Slippers and Thorns
The question, of course, was – why now? After the distance that had grown between them, the pain each had dealt to the other, and especially the words they had exchanged earlier that day,whyhad she chosen to do something for him that she hadn’t done in at least a year?
Maybe the answer was in the gift on his pillow. Michael picked it up, noting that it was fairly light but quite solid. Removing the paper, he revealed a small dagger, its gleaming cross guard and pommel catching the candlelight as he examined the leather-wrapped grip and simple leather sheath. He pulled the weapon from its sheath and studied the blade. It appeared to be suitably sharp and decently well made; it was simple, but he thought he recognized the work of a promising young weapon-smith who often had a booth in the market.
It wasn’t a weapon he would have bought for himself; he preferred either something longer that gave him more reach or else a design better suited to throwing. Not that Arabella could be expected to know something like that, of course. In fact, he was surprised that she bought him a weapon in the first place – it didn’t seem like her style.
Probably suggested by that guard of hers, he thought with disgust.Although, he hesitated,it does seem like odd behavior to ask her paramour for advice on a gift to win her husband back. And shedidask me to teach her archery. Maybe she’s trying to expand her interests?
Flipping the dagger in the air, he admired the balance before catching and re-sheathing it. It might not be something he would use, but he had to admit that it was a fine piece of workmanship.
It didn’t change anything, though. A gift and cleaning his quarters weren’t proof of innocence. And he didn’t feel inclined toward forgiveness or reconciliation.
Michael tossed the sheathed dagger onto a side table. He’d decide what to do with it in the morning. For now, he had a book to enjoy.
Alone.
Helena. If only you had lived…
Having decided to be unimpressed with her gift, Michael was as cold as usual to Arabella when he saw her the next day. Therefore, when he returned to his room that evening, he was surprised to find that it had once again received an extra cleaning with the extra touches that could only be hers.
Of course, the flowers that she left on his bedside table made him sneeze – he wasn’t sure if she didn’t know he was allergic to chrysanthemums, or if she was being passive-aggressive and hiding it behind a veneer of attempted kindness. The day-old donuts she left the next day seemed to support the latter option.
The following day, though, the oatmeal raisin cookies she left still held a bit of warmth when he arrived, and his room held the faint scent of freshly-baked cookies, as if she had brought them straight from the oven and let them cool on his table. It was a simple dessert not generally served in the royal castle, but the flavor wasn’t bad.
Each day, he found something different. Some days, it was a vase of flowers (never chrysanthemums after the first time); others, some kind of baked good that greeted him with its aroma when he walked through the door. One time, she magicked up a fancy dessert that the chef only made for special occasions – although based on its less-than-perfect appearance, he suspected that she had either coaxed an apprentice to make it or had prepared it herself. It still tasted good, though.
He also noticed that she had convinced her guards to shadow her from a distance. They were still near enough to observe her, as he, she, and they knew was their purpose in the castle, but they did so from the end of a hall instead of a standard six feet away. And it wasn’t just for show when she waited for him between meetings; while they had to stick closer when she was winding through internal passages – otherwise they might “lose” her at corners – every time he caught sight of her, even out a window, she appeared to be alone to a casual observer.
It was as if she was trying to send him a message that she wasn’t involved with any of them. As if to underline the point, the captain of her guard, Charles, seemed to rarely be on babysitting duty, appearing only when her trips into the city necessitated a second protector at her side.
Michael wasn’t sure if he bought it, but whether or not Arabella was romantically involved with Charles, there was no denying that he was her favorite among her guardsmen. Until now, he was the one most likely to be found at her side when she needed an escort. For her to send him away was a statement in and of itself.
Mulling these thoughts over, Michael was strolling down the hall towards lunch on a pleasant day in early autumn without his usual awareness of his surroundings. He gradually became aware of someone calling his name. Turning, he found the subject of his thoughts hurrying towards him.
“Good morning, Michael,” Arabella smiled. It was a fragile smile – she was probably surprised that he had stopped and worried that he would soon dismiss her.
Fair enough; he was surprised, too.
He nodded briefly to her. “Arabella.”
She twisted her hands nervously, then clasped them behind her back. “Would you like to join me for lunch?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m headed there now.”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I mean—I asked the kitchen staff for a picnic lunch to eat in the gardens. You know, in the grassy area near the center. The weather is pleasant today, and I thought—I thought you might like to come with me.”
He considered her briefly. Glancing around, he found her shadow halfway down the hall pretending not to watch. Today, it was a young pup whose name he couldn’t remember. Returning his attention to his wife, he noticed that her eyes kept sliding away from him. Rather than suggesting guilt, though, with the way she held her shoulders slightly hunched and her head ducked, it reminded him of a beaten dog seeking a kind hand.
Ignoring the flash of his own guilt, he shrugged. “We are expected in the dining room. And I am scheduled to meet with the heads of several guilds shortly after the meal.” As he turned to continue down the hall, he paused and added, “Thank you for the offer.”
He had taken several steps when a broken voice behind him begged, “Mike, please!”
He stopped. How long had it been since she called him Mike?
About as long as it had been since he’d called her Ella, he supposed. Life had been much sweeter when they were Mike and Ella, before they drifted apart and became Michael and Arabella.
A lot had happened since then. They weren’t just near-strangers at this point; there was bad blood between them in the form of a friendly guard captain and a much-too-willing noblewoman.
“Mike?”
