Morning crept into the room like a careful thief, sliding past the curtain to lay a thin strip of pale light across the desk. King's Landing stirred like some great, sullen beast in its den. The creak of wagon wheels over the cobbles, a hawker's call rising and falling, the sharp clatter of the distant clatter of pails and boots. All of it was muffled by the house's thick walls, inside one could only hear the low murmur of melodic laughter that swelled in the courtyard.
Marie sat at her desk with her precious ledgers smooth beneath her fingertips.
Books bound in leather worn soft by years, each of them marked in a different shade of ink. King's Landing. Bravos. Oldtown. Lys. Lannisport. And many others.
The columns inside were filled with figures, dates, and neat annotations. Goods like exotic perfumes, dyed candles laced with scent. Silks and spices from the Summer Isles. Rare oils that clung to the skin like a lover's touch. Arbor gold infused with powerful aphrodisiacs fetched a prince's ransom from those wealthy enough to pay for such indulgence. All desires sold faster than the ships could bring them to port.
The new houses across the cities had greatly prospered this past few years. Chataya's girls became more than objects of pleasure. They were trained in poetry, songs, and games of wit that could loosen a man's tongue and his purse in the same breath. Some played Cyvasse with their patrons yet they scarcely noticed the game or the secrets they let slip between moves.
Marie dipped her quill into the ink, watching the dark bead swell before it touched the page. She worked in small, deliberate strokes. Coin tallies checked, tariffs measured against bribes, small irregularities marked in the narrow space beside the numbers. The soft scratch of the nib was the only sound, save for the faint creak of the chair when she shifted her weight. Bravos gave way to Pentos, Pentos to Oldtown, until all the ledgers lay in a neat stack again.
The sun's pale strip crept across the desk, climbing the wall behind her chair. The air was warmer now, scented faintly with roses from the courtyard below. Marie noticed the colors in the room had brightened from the gray of morning to the richer gold of day.
Somewhere downstairs, a door closed and opened again, followed by the musical lilt of Chataya's voice. She was greeting some patrons with the sort of warmth Marie couldn't even feign, nor did she want to. That was Chataya's game and Yaya's. Marie instead turned to the second stack and focused on what she did best and the work she actually enjoyed.
These were smaller, humbler sheets. Letters and scraps of parchment folded into precise quarters, sealed with wax or knotted string. She knew each hand without needing to see the names: the measured slant of the Lyseni madam in Lannisport, the confident loops of the Pentoshi branch-keeper, the narrow, cramped script of the Braavosi girl whose letters always smelled faintly of myrrh.
Some carried the perfumes of their house, others the tang of salt from the voyage, or the faint musk of damp parchment.
She broke the seals in turn.
From Lannisport came word of a knight of the Rock, too free with his coin in the company of smugglers. Lys whispered of a sellsword company had taken Myrish gold. In Oldtown, a murmur of some highborn bastard hidden away in the Starry Sept, except, perhaps from the eyes of the Seven.
Names. Movements. Debts owed and yet to be called in.
The girls had learned to write their own ciphers, each a little different, so that no single key could unpick them all. Marie read their words twice over, her lips barely moving. She did not gasp at treachery or frown at scandal; such luxuries belonged to those who could afford surprise.
She simply reached for a fresh sheet and began to write again. Her hand shaping the tight, curling cipher she and Arthur had honed over the years. It had no place for sentiment. Each loop and slash pared the truth to its bone, stripping away the hands that bore it and the tongues that spoke it.
When the last mark was made, she folded the parchment, pressed her seal into black wax, and slipped it into a leather pouch already half-full. The green thread stitched at its side marked it for White Harbor.
Twice each month the merchant ships came, their holds heavy with silks and spices, perfumes and arbor red, and twice they sailed away carrying. The letters would find their way to White Harbor in a fortnight, hidden beneath false cargo bottoms that would carry grains, fruits, and other items no customs officer would ever suspect.
Arthur's network, though it passed through many hands, ran smooth as a well-oiled wheel. And Chataya's girls, Marie among them, were the hands that turned it.
She sanded the parchment, shook the grains free, and set the wax to melt. The seal pressed cleanly. Noonlight spilled across her desk like molten gold.
She lingered a heartbeat, her fingers resting on the pouch. The leather was warm from the sun, and she knew that, yet the warmth reminded her of his hands. She smoothed it once more before letting it go. He would read her words before the moon's turn, and perhaps he would think of her.
Or he won't. As he shouldn't, not now, not again, Marie thought. A knock broke her thoughts. Three soft taps, then the door creaked open without waiting for reply.
Alyaya slipped inside as though she belonged there, in truth, she always had. She wore deep green silk today, her hair bound in thin braids threaded with beads of jade and jet. She smiled mischievously.
"I thought I'd find you buried in books," she said, sauntering in. "And look, I was right. Ledgers thicker than the septon's gospels."
"At least I know how to read," Marie said looking up flashing a grin.
Alayaya pressed a hand to her heart and staggered back a step as though struck. "You wound me, Marie. Oh, cold queen of the brothels, cruel with her tongue and crueler with her quill."
Marie allowed herself the smallest curl of a smile. "You've survived worse from me."
"Yes, Mother!" Yaya said giggling, wandering closer to the desk, her eyes falling on the sealed pouch. She tapped it with one painted nail. "And what's this? Sending love notes to our northern prince?"
Marie grabbed the pouch with a snap. "Manderly business. Not yours."
Alayaya's grin only deepened. "Not mine? Twice you strike me before the sun's at its height. I may faint where I stand."
"If you must, faint somewhere that isn't my floor," Marie said, rolling her eyes. "I've work yet."
Yaya leaned nearer, beads clicking softly. "Manderly business," she murmured, glancing about as if the walls were listening. "Is that what we're calling it now? The rest of us call it sending sweet words north and waiting for the fairest lord in all the Seven Kingdoms to send some back."
Marie dipped her quill, "Fair faces are common enough. And if I wanted sweet words, I'd hire a poet."
"You want him," Yaya said with mock solemnity, "and you want him badly."
Marie glanced up, the green of her eyes cool and steady, "Wanting is for fools and children, Yaya. I am neither."
Alayaya's mouth curved into a mock pout. "Still as cold as the North."
"Better that than as loud as the bells of Oldtown." Marie replied, the faintest smirk touched her lips.
"Oh, don't be cruel," Yaya said, "I only came to ask if our Lady of Ledgers finally had her kiss beneath the stars."
Marie dipped her quill again, "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" She settled herself on the desk's edge with the easy entitlement of a cat that had never been chased from any cushion in its life. Her smile was sly, her brown eyes bright with mischief. "I followed you to the harbor this morning. All in blue, like some poor, lost maiden from the songs, the wind playing in your hair. Standing so still, watching that ship as though you'd leap in after it if it turned about."
Marie's hand stilled over the parchment. She did not raise her head, but the pause was enough for Yaya to press on.
"A fine ship," Yaya continued, "and a finer man aboard it. Sunkissed hair, broad of shoulder, with eyes the color of a shimmering sea. I swear, if the goddess had a son, he'd be half as beautiful."
Marie's hand paused, "Beauty is cheap, it wilts quickly enough when the sun turns."
"Not this one." Yaya leaned forward, her grin widening. "This one's beauty could melt the Wall itself."
"Wanting a man for his face is like buying a horse for its mane. Sooner or later, you'll find it can't run."
Yaya laughed, "And yet you've been watching that seahorse sail away since we were girls."
The words brushed dangerously close, too close, but Marie's mask of calm never faltered, "I watched many ships, Yaya. Some carry spice, some carry silk, and some only carry trouble. Guess which one that was."
Yaya's voice dropped to a sultry whisper, "A northern god wrapped in silk."
Marie lifted her brow in amusement. "If your admiration runs so deep, I'll be certain to tell him when next we speak."
Yaya's grin bloomed. "Seven save me, I'd die on the spot if he so much as looked my way. But what a sweet death it would be. Besides—" she leaned closer, lowering her voice until it was little more than the purr of silk on stone, "I've loved this little game since we were girls. You, swearing you don't care. Me, swearing I do."
A ghost of a smile brushed Marie's lips, "You'd be better served spending less time on pretence, Yaya. Truth might suit you more."
Rising with a swish of skirts and the soft clink of beads, Yaya laughed warmly, "And you," she said, eyes sparkling, "might find you're worse at hiding it than you think."
Before Marie could summon a sharp retort, the door swung inward without a knock, and Chataya swept into the room with the grace of a queen entering her court. The silks she wore whispered over the floorboards, their deep carmine catching the noonlight, and the faintest trace of myrrh clung to her, warm and heavy. Her eyes, black as polished jet, missed little.
"Yaya," she said, folding her arms beneath her breast, "are you tormenting her again?"
"She deserves it," Yaya replied, feigning innocence, "Keeping secrets like a spider weaves her web. I'm merely prying them loose."
Chataya's gaze slid to Marie, "And what secrets are those?"
"Nothing worth repeating," Marie answered, rising from her chair, as she reached for the silver flagon on the shelf. The cool metal soothed her palm as she poured, the wine spilling in a slow, steady ribbon, dark as garnet. "No time for lords or love, not when there's gold to be counted."
"Is that so?" Yaya grinned, "Then you'll not care to hear that your name was spoken last night."
Marie's hand paused mid-pour, "On whose mouth?" she asked, knowing it was a mistake, yet she couldn't resist the temptation.
Yaya's eyes sparkled with the thrill of a well-set trap. "The mouth of a lion," she breathed, "Lord Tyrion Lannister."
Chataya chuckled, gliding to the hearth. "Lord Lannister visited after the feast. Asked for the finest we had."
Alayaya preened. "Naturally, I was summoned. Dancy joined me. We kept him entertained for hours. But he asked for you, Marie. Poor man nearly wept when told you were not available."
Marie snorted. "I doubt Lord Tyrion weeps for anything save an empty cup."
"He said you were wasted behind books," Alayaya sighed as though the weight of the world had been thrust upon her. "Lord Lannister wished to test the famed Ice-Queen of the silk street, certain he could make her thaw with the touch of a lion."
"She is far too busy for lions made of gold." Marie said, her tone flat.
Yaya added, "Aye, but she could always make time for a certain Merman."
That brought Chataya's laughter, soft and warm, echoing against the stone. Her dark eyes lingered on Marie, "Still waiting, child?"
Marie looked out the window, "There is nothing to wait for."
"Yet you wait all the same," said Chataya, quiet but certain.
"The heart wants what the heart wants," Alayaya added with a smirk, twirling the end of her braid as though she had solved some riddle.
"The heart wants coin and comfort," Marie replied, folding her arms. "And I have both, more than I ever could have on my back."
That brought laughter again, brighter this time. They were all Marie had in this world and she wouldn't have them worried. She gave them a smile, even loosed a chuckle. Better to laugh than let them see too deep.
Chataya, who had raised her from girlhood when her mother vanished into the night like smoke borne away on the wind. She meant more to her than the one who birthed her. More to her than the man who had sired her and left her nothing but shame.
And Alayaya, who needled and teased without mercy, yet would bare her claws for Marie as fierce as any blood-sister. They loved her, and they saw her plain. So they knew the truth, no matter how much she tried to hide.
They knew that Marie loved him. That he could never be hers. Not truly.
They knew that the letters she sent north to White Harbor meant more to her than tallies of coin and whispers of men's doings. That she lived each day in the thin, fragile space between waiting and pretending not to.
They knew, and prayed for her still.
"You'll see him again, my child," Chataya said softly. "Just wait a little while."
Alayaya teased, "And remember if you wait for too long, sweet sister, you'll find the ship sailed with me while you were still counting your coin."
Marie forced a smile, "I wait for no man, Mother. And as for you, Yaya, there is always another ship upon the tide."
Yet the words rang hollow in her ears. Ships came and went with the turning of the tide, aye. She told herself as much.
Another ship, another tide, another life.
But in her heart, she knew, there was only one that mattered, a boy who had long since become a man. And every morning, Marie's eyes turned northwards, as if she might catch a glimpse of him on the horizon.
Marie thought back to the grey sea of the morning. Above which the gulls wheeled and cried, harsh voices breaking the hush of early light. There she stood, alone, watching as The Mermaid's Tears eased free of her moorings and slid out into the water, like a swan in the river.
A cool wind blew in, tugging at the hood that Marie pulled low over her hair. The hem of her cloak clung damp to her ankles, and her slippers were wet through from the spray that leapt against the dock.
The sails unfurled with the color of a blue-green sea, rippling in the wind. A green-haired, bearded, silver-skinned merman holding a trident upon them, gleaming as though alive. Then the breeze filled the cloth, snapping it taut, and the ship leapt forward, prow cutting the bay like a blade through silk.
And Marie's heart sailed away with it. She had known better than to come. She had told herself so a dozen times, lying awake through the long night while the torches guttered and the brothel grew quiet around her.
Still, when the hour came, Marie's feet had carried her here, silent through King's Landing's crooked alleys before the city stirred. Only the dockhands and fishmongers moved in the mists then, shouting soft to one another, their faces hidden beneath wool. She had slipped amongst them like any other ghost. She stood across the docks, hoping to see his face again.
And there he was standing proudly upon the quay.
Arthur Manderly, wrapped in a sable cloak, the colors of his house bright against the grey dawn. His fair hair shone even in such meager light. Arthur carried himself with the same careless grace he always had. In the mist, Marie could not see his eyes from where she stood, but she remembered them well enough.
Arthur was speaking then, a quiet jest to Donnell at his side, a word to his steward as he gestured toward the gangplank. His mouth curved easily into smiles, softening the sternness of his jaw, and when he laughed, it reached across to her. It seemed to set the very air to ease.
Marie had not meant to be here, not meant to linger. She had not meant to trace the lines of him with her eyes as though committing him to memory. Yet she had stood rooted, hidden beneath her hood, while the tide carried him farther from her reach with the blow of northern wind.
When the ship at last turned northward, she drew her cloak tighter, though it did little to shield her from the wind that whipped cold against her cheeks. She told herself it was only the sea air that made her eyes water.
Her thoughts turned, to that first time. Gods, had it truly been five years?
She had been twelve name-days then, a thin pale young thing. He had been younger still, ten, and yet Yaya whispered of the boy lord, who had bought a beautiful manse and opened his bank. She had thought then. What sort of ten-year-old bought manses and opened banks?
Marie remembered the day well. She had been painting her lips with crushed berries when Yaya came bursting into her room, eyes dancing with mischief. "He's come," she'd said. "The boy-lord. You should see him, Marie. Tall as a reed and prettier than half the men who come through here. Come on, let's have a look."
Marie had refused at first. Curiosity was Yaya's sin, not hers. She had no interest in some noble boy who played at lordship. And yet, when Yaya tugged her by the hand, she followed, as she always did.
They'd crept through the secret door behind Chataya's private chambers, into an old hidden tunnel that ran from Rhaenys's Hill all the way up to the hill of Visenya's. Marie hadn't even known it connected to the house until that day. The air smelled of damp stone and cinnamon oil. They sneaked like thieves, skirts brushing the stone, hearts beating quick as rabbit drums. And soon they emerged from the tunnel into the kitchens of the manse.
They slipped among the servants. Though they stared wide-eyed at the polished floors and the scent of foreign spices. The boy had brought cooks from Essos, and the air was thick with scents strange and sweet.
Spiced wine bubbling in copper pots, skewers of lamb crackling over flame, honey dripping from roasted quail. Sweetmeats wrapped in fig leaves, candied lotus root glistening like amber, the perfume of cinnamon and oranges. The food was unlike anything Marie had tasted.
Then they had climbed the stairs, bold with excitement and a little too full from stolen delicacies. The corridors smelled of polished wood and candle wax. His room they'd found empty, and then they heard a voice, clear and sorrowful, drifting up from the courtyard like smoke.
It was a song, soothing and strange, woven in a tongue that was foreign to her. Yet she felt its sorrow, it made her chest ache like it never did before. They crept to the balcony and looked below. And there Arthur was in the courtyard. The boy-lord. Alone in the courtyard singing like an angel of the gods.
His voice broke on the final note, and he looked up. "I know you're up there," he'd said. "Don't bother running."
They had nearly tripped over each other in their scramble for the door. The sound of their feet on the stairs must have echoed like drums. At the bottom, he stood, wearing a robe of pale blue and silver that caught the lamplight. And when his eyes met hers, Marie forgot to breathe.
He guided the scared pair back upstairs. Yaya, who was near her first curve of womanhood, tried to charm him. Lashes fluttered, lips pouted but he only raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Try that again," he said softly, "and I'll have you hanged."
Alayaya went ashen. "Please, m'lord, we—"
He laughed heartily, "Calm yourself, I am jesting," Then his gaze settled on Marie, "You look cleverer than this one," he said with authority. "Tell me who sent you here."
Marie swallowed, her throat dry, yet she met his gaze with a careful steadiness. "No one, m'lord. We are from Chataya's. We came… because we were curious."
His lips twitched. "Curious, aye. And yet… how could you have entered, surely not by the door?"
"We… we came through a tunnel," Yaya interjected hastily, cheeks flushed. "We mean no harm."
He considered them a long moment, eyes narrowing, then the tension in his frame eased. A small smile broke across his face, pale and fleeting, yet warm enough to send a strange flutter through Marie's chest.
Finally he spoke, "Come, eat with me. I hate dining alone."
He offered them supper and said they should stay the night, lest Chataya find out. And that's what they did. Alyaya fell asleep quickly.
Arthur stayed awake, speaking with Marie late into the night. He asked about her life. She told him everything. Though she did not know why. Marie was always wary of strangers yet with him she felt safe somehow. She told him of her childhood at the brothel of her sisterhood with Yaya, of how Chataya treated her like a daughter.
Arthur then told her of his home, of the stories that he read, Marie's eyes stole glance at the books sprawled across his table. He asked if she wanted one of them. Marie became flushed and admitted she couldn't read. Arthur only smiled and promised that he would teach her.
Each year Arthur returned, and each year Marie found her way to him. Always through that tunnel, always in secret. She'd taught herself sums and letters under Arthur's gentle hand. There it was only the two of them, two souls in a golden cage, pretending the bars didn't exist.
Outside, the world bore down with its duties, its titles, its unkind truths, but here… they were just Marie and Arthur.
Marie had never told him the truth of her heart. It would have been cruel to speak it aloud. She was a whore's daughter, a bastard twice over, her life carved from scraps of shame and shadow.
He was a hero's son, a man destined for glory and honor. Whose deeds and vows that would be sung across Westeros.
She hid her love behind laughter, behind silks and scents. She used words of wit and kept love hidden. Yet when he smiled at her, the walls she made melted away, leaving her in both bliss and in torment.
Marie remembered the way her girls had laughed and teased her. As many a man came through the brothel and asked for Marie by name, some with coins, some with jewels, one even with a song. She had sent them all away with quiet words, sweet and precise. Some were satisfied, some kept yearning. Like the handsome and honey-voiced Lysene boy, the banker's son, who had followed her with soft gifts and softer eyes, promising marriage, promising freedom from her past. A future.
Marie smiled, she thanked him for his kindness and then turned him down. She didn't want a future without Arthur. Even if that future was impossible.
This year, Arthur returned once again, and this time, he came for glory.
Marie had stolen through the tunnel as she had done so many times, yet her heart had hammered in her chest. Arthur was fifteen now, taller than many grown men, his shoulders broader, his cheekbones sharper, and the soft innocence of his face replaced with a quiet, commanding grace.
Arthur smiled as he saw her, that damned smile which could shatter her cold heart instantly. She couldn't speak properly, her voice trembling, "Will you really fight?"
He had only chuckled. "I'll be fine, Marie." and he said, "So long as I have your favor in my hand, will you honor me with it?"
Marie's heart stuttered. Favor? From her? Why? She was no princess, no highborn lady with a castle and a title. He could have asked anyone. Dozens of noble girls would have thrown themselves at his feet.
She opened her mouth to deny him, to speak some clever refusal, some way to protect her heart. Yet the words stuck. What could she say? She could have said no, said he was jesting. But she knew he did not jest.
He waited, quiet and steady, the weight of expectation heavy but tempered by the softness of his gaze.
Yet Marie also wanted to say yes to him. She wanted to confess that she had loved him for years in silence, from shadows, with every bit of her heart and soul. That she had prayed for his safety with every letter sent north. But she stayed silent.
Marie could smell the faint scent of pine and leather, feel the warmth of his body in the small space, and all the careful masks she wore slipped. Her hands trembled. She wanted to promise him everything she had, even if it was nothing more than herself.
Marie's fingers trembled as she tore the ribbon from her gown, a soft strip of yellow brighter than her own hair. She tied it about his wrist, clumsy for once, her breath quick in her throat. He looked down at the ribbon, then at her. And before she could think, before she could even breathe, his lips were on hers. It was not the hurried brush of children at play, but a true kiss, full and certain, the kind that stole the ground from beneath her feet. It was her first kiss. She wondered if it was the same for him too.
Finally, Arthur drew back and smiled, "I will win the crown for you, Marie," he said softly, "Stay with me, tonight."
That night, Arthur sang in the courtyard, as he had the first time she had ever seen him. The sound of it carried through the stone like smoke curling in the air, filling her chest until it ached. He had sung for her before, yes, but this was different.
Did he feel the same? Or was she but a passing fancy for a lord who would one day forget her name? A thousand thoughts clawed through Marie's mind, each more cruel than the last. And when he smiled at her, Marie thought she would give him anything he wished, even if it damned her afterwards. She had kept herself untouched, though she lived in a house of flesh. Marie was longing for his touch, only his.
Yet that night, Arthur did not ask for more. He only sang his songs, and spoke with her as he always had, making her laugh, making her forget. And when the hour grew late, he kissed her again, soft as a prayer, before he curled into a chair and bade her take his bed.
Marie wanted to whisper, Arthur, come lie beside me. She longed to feel the weight of him against her, the heat of his skin. But fear sealed her lips. If he thought her forward, if he thought her like the others, like the women who earned their coin in Chataya's rooms, then she would lose him forever. He had never treated her so, never, and she would not let him start now.
So she lay alone, restless, her heart warring with itself until sleep would not come. At last Marie rose, barefoot and quiet, and sat by his side, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he dreamed. In that moment she felt at peace, as if the whole of the world had narrowed to this man, this room, this moment. She did not know when she drifted to sleep, only that she woke in his bed once more, a blanket tucked about her.
Arthur was awake, smiling down at her. "Will you stay for breakfast?" he asked.
Marie's heart stuttered. He wore no shirt, and the light of dawn traced the lines of his body, lean and strong, like something carved of marble and set upon an altar. She flushed red before she could stop herself, and his smile deepened as he turned away to bathe.
She rose quickly, seeking escape before her courage faltered. There was a small door he had built for her, a secret passage that wound toward the kitchens and from there to the tunnel leading back to Chataya's. As she reached it, a voice carried through the stone.
Panic gripped her. Donnel did not know of her, not yet. If he saw her here, in Arthur's chambers, she would be named his whore, and Arthur would bear the shame of it.
Marie's breath caught in her throat as she fled into the tunnel, heart hammering so hard it hurt. She did not know if it was fear or joy that coursed through her blood, only that she was drowning in it.
Later, at the tourney, the melee came first. Then the joust.
Marie stood near the stands, veiled and hooded. She watched him ride out, her heart clenched tight in her chest, and each clash of steel made her flinch. Each shattered lance made her bite her lip raw. Arthur was younger than half the men he faced, and fought them all, until only he remained.
They crowned him with a golden victory. Nobles and commoners alike cheered his name. When Arthur turned in his saddle, searching the stands as if for someone, Marie ducked her head and hid among the crowds.
Arthur then gave his crown of love and beauty to Princess Myrcella, with her sunlight curls and pretty smiles. Marie felt the crown of white roses sat perfectly on her head. It was where it should be.
Let the world see Arthur as they ought to, fair, noble, and gallant. A man worthy of a princess's hand. He deserved no less. Arthur was meant for sunlight and songs, not for her shadowed corners.
Back at Chataya's Marie told herself it was done. Her heart was bruised, her soul torn in two, but it was best this way.
Foolish for him to love her, more foolish still for her to dream of him. Friends, that was all they could be. She would love him quietly, love him with all she had, and pray he found happiness elsewhere.
Yet that night Marie went back. One last time. To bid him farewell. To offer her congratulations, wishes and prayers.
Arthur's room was empty when Marie slipped inside. She thought he hadn't returned from the royal feast yet. So, she waited, listening to the echoes of her own heartbeat. When he still had not come, she turned to leave. But something tugged at her, that invisible thread that had always pulled her toward him. Marie's feet carried her to the balcony before she could think better of it. And there he was.
Standing in the courtyard below, pale blonde hair silvered by moonlight. Arthur lifted his head and saw her, as if he knew she would be here. He flashed his usual smile, and her heart nearly stopped. Arthur began singing, soft and aching, a ballad of longing, his words meant for her alone.
Before the last note faded, Arthur was running up the stairs again. The door flew wide, and then his arms were wrapped around her. Marie gasped softly, Arthur's breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "I love you."
Marie's protest caught in her throat. "We cannot. You are—and I am—"
"I don't care." He whispered.
"I do," she breathed, though the words had no strength left in them. Arthur's lips found Marie's. And she could not deny him.
That night was theirs. The first and gods help her, perhaps the last.
Marie knew it even as she yielded, as she clung to him with all the hunger she had buried for so long. If Arthur wished her to be his mistress, his secret, even his whore, then so be it. Marie would be whatever he asked, so long she might have this, have him, for more than a night.
Yet she knew, dawn would come soon enough and take Arthur home. He would wed some noble daughter, father strong sons, carve his place among the stars.
And Marie would remain here, clutching a memory. A song. A kiss. A night. More than she deserved, more than she had ever dared to dream.
Marie blinked away the memory as the day bled into dusk. She lingered at the window, eyes fixed upon the hill where his banners flew still. She prayed for him then, soft as a sigh. Prayed, so he could be happy. Prayed, so she wouldn't cry. Then she whispered the only vow her heart could speak.
"I will wait, my love, till the day I die."