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Chapter Text

On the anniversary of her parents’ assassination, Ann gasped awake, each memory and emotion crashing through her like a great, stormy sea. She clutched the bedsheets in her fists, knuckles white and her body rigid.

Muffled as though from under water, voices in the hallway spoke in hurried, frantic tones.

Ann peeked through the keyhole. Nothing, just darkness and the flickering of candlelight. She pressed her ear against it. The voices grew stronger. Ann recognized one belonging to the captain of the guard, her low voice stern and measured. The other, one of her father’s many manservants, frightened, sobbing.

She cursed the storm outside for masking their words. Then she hushed as they stopped outside her door. Ann stood just as the captain swung it open. They stared at each other. Ann, her hair loose and wispy in her floral nightgown, and the captain, in full armor and the sash with her family crest, her helmet removed, and her forehead bleeding and bruised.

The dim, flickering light deepened the grimace on the captain’s face. “Good,” she said, “You’re awake. There is an assassin in the castle. We need to move.”

Her parents were surely dead. The lavishly decorated corridors in her own home were places of danger, each shadow crawling on the walls assumed an enemy before a servant.The captain guided her swiftly past them all. Ann was thankful for her sure but gentle nudges. The captain seemed to understand that her brain had stopped functioning, that her body moved automatically, and that each moment seemed to last decades. When they arrived at the hiding place in her father’s study, Ann fainted, and the guard caught her.

In her arms, Ann rambled, “Why are you here, with me? Is the assassin dead? Shouldn’t you be—shouldn’t you—”

The captain smeared drops of blood away from her own eyes. They rarely spoke more than a sentence to each other before this night. She said, “I am here because your safety is my priority now. The assassin will be found. You will decide their fate.”

As she delivered the news, Ann’s folded hands trembled. The burden of her new station fell upon her all at once, made heavier by the grief of her parents’ sudden and violent deaths.

The captain held her hair as she vomited at her feet.

Rain clattered on the tall glass windows, drowning Ann’s ragged breaths and desperate sobs. Yet the captain still heard her, surely already alert because of the date, and rushed into the room.

Captain Lister approached, sword drawn, her eyes steeled for shapes in the darkness. “What’s wrong, your majesty?” she asked sharply.

“It’s happening again,” Ann gasped. “My parents...dying. You, your head split open…”

Captain Lister removed her helmet. Her earthy brown eyes regarded Ann with familiar fondness—pity, Ann was sure—and her dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. Ann’s heart fluttered when she saw the captain’s face, partially because it reminded her that she was a human being and not just a figure, and partially because she was handsome.

They first met when Ann was fourteen. Captain Lister was the newest member of the king’s guard then, in her mid-twenties, fresh from the army and ready to prove herself. She was a little too bold; she smirked at Ann, shook her hand firmly, and said, “My name is Anne, your grace.”

They rarely talked to each other in the following years, and never outside the captain’s guard duty. Anne was a shadow to her father, always business, but Ann still clung to the image of her handsome face and cocky grin. After her parents’ death, Ann was sure the captain could see through to her infatuation, and avoided speaking to her as much as she could out of embarrassment.

Above her, Captain Lister’s thick eyebrows knit together with concern. “My forehead is fine now. Not even a scar to speak of,” she said.

Ann looked. It was true.

“The rain,” she began through shaking breaths. Her hands trembled. She steadied them, picking at her gown. “The rain woke me up. I couldn’t—I tried so hard to sleep. But it keeps playing in my head,” she whispered.

Captain Lister’s eyebrow cocked. She glanced toward the window, then drew a breath. “Your majesty, there is no rain,” she said gently.

Ann looked through the window and saw twinkling stars through the trees. Yet the rain pounded in her ears, a torrential downpour, blocking her thoughts. She covered her ears. “Stop,” she whispered. “Stop, stop, stop.”

Rain continued to pour, and a howling wind faded in and out. Ann hugged her knees, eyes wide. “It’s all I can hear,” she said. “Just the storm. How can you hear me? It swallows my voice...”

The captain circled the room, peeling back curtains, opening large drawers, and leaning out of the windows. Ann gasped when she threw open each window, sure that a torrent of rain would toss the curtains and wet the books. Each time the curtains were still, and the only thing pouring in was the sound of crickets singing in the grass.

“Nothing seems to be here. Would it make you feel safer to have someone stationed here all night?” she said.

Ann nodded. Through the rain, muffled voices in the hallway. The keyhole. Blackness, then flickering candlelight.

Captain Lister called to another from the doorway. “Wake James,” she said. “He is to stand outside this door all night, and check in every quarter of an hour.”

The captain looked at her. On her forehead was a fresh cut, blood dripping on her brow. Ann reached up to wipe it away. Captain Lister was confused, but allowed it. When Ann pulled her hand away, there was no blood.

Ann looked up at her, eyes wide.

Captain Lister looked at her tenderly, smiling with the corner of her mouth. She said, “James will be here soon. Good night, your majesty.”

She left, and the storm raged on. When Ann blinked, lightning flashed under the hoods of her eyes. She lay awake through the night, trying to quiet the storm, blinking away each memory as it appeared, until she fell asleep and dreamed of it.

Chapter Text

Anne rose before the sun at 5AM each day and followed a strict schedule. Oatmeal and toast were brought to her room by plain, half-awake servants. While she ate, she noted the shift changes for the day, training regimens for her unit, and the queen’s upcoming events and excursions. Presently, there was only tea tomorrow with the Duke of Winter Hill, who had arrived in the city the day before last. And the week after—

A timid knock on the door interrupted her. Anne rolled her eyes. She said sharply, “Come in, then.”

Samuel Washington filed in with a young man in tow. Washington cleared his throat, then said, “Sorry to disturb you so early, ser. This is Thomas Sowden. We were wondering if we should add him to the rotation today.”

From the doorway, Sowden gave an enthusiastic wave. His travel-worn but chipper expression and roughspun tunic—a stark contrast to Washington’s overly polished armor—made him look more like a child than a knight.

“You’re five days early,” Anne said, turning back to her breakfast.

“I am, captain,” Sowden answered earnestly. “The, uh, the carriage ride here was—”

“I don’t need an explanation,” Anne interrupted, not unkindly. “To answer your question, Washington, no. Her majesty has had a difficult night. A new face will likely add to her stress. Have him fitted for armor, then take him to the training grounds. I’ll check in with the queen and arrange a proper meeting later.”

“Right. Thank you, ser,” Washington said. He motioned for the boy to shuffle out of the room.

“If you would close the door on your way out,” Anne said, ripping off a corner of buttered toast with her teeth.

The door creaked as he closed it. Before it shut fully, Sowden turned back and called, “It was good to meet you, Captain Lister!”

When the door clicked shut, Anne massaged her forehead, prodding away the beginning of a headache. If she believed in omens, this interruption would be one. Instead, she resolved to take advantage of her day off, and bounced her knee thinking about the quiet, toasty corner of the library she would soon occupy.

For a day off-duty, the list of tasks to be done before the library was short. She tipped back the last bites of oatmeal and scrawled “meet with queen to discuss Sowden” in her notebook.

At 6AM she dressed, foregoing her lavish—but heavy and stuffy—armor for a posh coat. The coat was her preferred style, black with silver lining and buttons. She pinned the captain’s badge to her chest, strapped on her sword, and gave herself a once-over in the mirror before beginning her walk.

The morning air was brisk. Frost dusted the dirt and grass, crunching under Anne’s well-worn boots. The regular guards wished her good morning as she passed them at their posts along the perimeter. The walk warmed her legs and restored her enthusiasm for the day.

Back inside, Anne made her way to the queen’s chambers. She pulled James aside just before the 8AM shift change.

“How is she?” she asked.

“Fell asleep just two hours ago, ser. Seemed to be fitful,” James said. His face was pale. It made sense that he was worried; he and the queen knew each other since childhood.

Anne pondered the previous night. A storm only the queen could hear. How small she looked, trembling with terror, how lonely. She again felt the queen’s soft touch on her forehead, and the concern in her eyes when she thought Anne was hurt…

It was trauma and delusion playing tricks, Anne thought. The queen had never really cared for her. She looked away when they spoke. She avoided casual conversation. Somehow, Anne had offended her.

“At least she fell asleep,” Anne said. “Hopefully tonight is kinder to her.”

James nodded. “Ser.”

Anne nodded to the other two guards and made her way to the training grounds to see how Sowden was fitting in.

The grounds was a small, enclosed arena, worn to wet dirt from decades of use. A small shed in the corner held a half dozen dulled practice swords and bows. Straw dummies lined the perimeter, their once-fresh forms crooked and thinned, and their yellow organs strewn over the dirt.

Washington and Sowden were in the middle, swords clashing. Anne watched their bout, though it was agonizingly slow, as it was a lesson rather than a contest. She decided Sowden was a good enough swordsman, if a bit brutish. She welcomed him officially, with a smile this time, then dismissed herself at the earliest opportunity.

At 9AM, Anne arrived at the steps of the Royal Library. Walking into the library was like taking a slow, deep breath. Wide marble steps ascended to a large mahogany desk piled with aging tomes and books as thin as pamphlets. Behind the desk was a large semi-circle bookshelf, and behind that hallways that led to a maze of bookshelves. Anne longed to lose herself in them, tucking into a corner, all the world’s knowledge open to her for a few short hours.

Anne walked along the shelves, her finger tracing the spines as she searched. She plucked a variety as she walked: a study of storms and clouds, a collection of poetry by monks from across the sea, and a record of local weather patterns.

Anne settled in an alcove with a window. Sunlight poured in, catching on flakes of dust in the air after she opened the books. She exhaled, then savored the smell of old paper and ink. Savored the quiet. Over the hours, she moved from one book to another, placing each back in its shelf with reverence.

While replacing the book of poetry, a gentle voice behind her said, “Hello, Captain Lister.”

Anne spun. Like a painting, the queen stood before her in a delicate, baby-blue dress, loose ringlets of golden hair spilling past her ears. Her lips had a dab of gloss. Her bright blue eyes met Anne’s.

Anne instinctively straightened, held her hands behind her back, and bowed. Breathless, she said, “Your majesty. Are you feeling better?”

“I am,” the queen said. She averted her eyes. “I was told you would be here.”

“Yes, I like to come here on my days off. How can I be of service?”

The queen gave a small smile, her eyes flitting up to meet Anne’s. She said, “I wanted to say thank you. For last night. Not many would have been so kind. They would have called me mad and left it alone.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “I’m not often praised for my kindness,” she said, unable to mask her surprise.

“Yes. Well. You were very sweet.”

The queen looked down and picked at her dress. It was her usual behavior. Each of their interactions devolved into nervous busying or awkward pauses. Anne bit her lip. She figured it was time to face the situation head on.

She said, “Your majesty, do I make you nervous?”

The queen’s eyes widened. “No, um, I just rarely see you without armor. Your coat looks nice,” she said, her cheeks and ears tinged pink.

Ah, not nervousness, but something else. A smile touched Anne’s lips. “Thank you, your majesty.”

The queen stepped beside her, reaching for the book she had just placed on the shelf. Their arms brushed. Anne took a deferential step back. The queen didn't seem to notice. She leafed through the first few pages, then began coughing from the dust.

“Poetry,” she exclaimed between coughs. “You are full of surprises. It is easy to forget many knights are well-read.”

Anne looked at the book over the queen’s shoulder. When she got close, the queen inhaled sharply. Several inches away from her ear, Anne said, “We’re romantics as a rule. Duty, honor, and chivalry are the stuff of songs and poems. We become knights to embody those ideals.”

The queen turned to face her. “Is that why you became a knight?”

Anne bowed her head and said, “Of course. Serving her majesty is my greatest pleasure.”

The queen laughed. “Really?” she said, incredulous.

Anne’s grin widened. “Sure,” she said. “Access to the Royal Library is a good perk, too.” She leaned toward the queen, as if sharing a secret, and whispered, “I want to read all the books and scrolls in this library someday.”

The queen looked around, and as she did so made a small squeaking sound, as if realizing its vastness for the first time.

“How do you choose what to read first?”

“I keep an eye out for what I’m interested in. If I’m feeling adventurous, I pick one without looking,” Anne said.

The queen looked at the shelf, reading the spines. She said, “Have you ever had an interest you couldn’t find a book on?”

“Only one. I’m very interested in anatomy. You can find a dozen books on bones, blood, and sexual organs, but the subject eluding me is the human brain.”

“Does one exist?”

Anne clicked her tongue. “If it did, it would be hard to find. Brains are difficult to study. Bodies donated to students at medical schools are often too decayed to get a good idea.”

The queen wrinkled her nose. She said, “A bit gruesome to think about, but interesting nonetheless. I hope you find one.”

She returned the book to its shelf. Anne noticed her hands were covered in a thin layer of dust, and offered her handkerchief.

“I’d hate to be responsible for dirtying your dress,” Anne said, still smiling.

The queen smirked. “How knightly of you,” she said, and took it.

Anne had never had a conversation this long with the queen. She was as sweet as Anne might have guessed, but quick on her feet. The shape of her was beautiful too, from the angle of her jaw and the curve of her neck to the hint of slender legs under her dress. And her hands. Anne longed to be the handkerchief.

After wiping off the grime, the queen handed the it back, then offered her hand. “I’m sorry to have bothered you on your day off.”

“I’m glad you did,” Anne said, taking her hand and kissing it. Their touch lingered for a few seconds, the queen’s thumb brushing the length of her pinky finger.

With a dimpled smile, she bid Anne farewell. As she walked away, Anne let out the breath she was holding. She grinned, and figured the queen must care for her at least a little.

Chapter Text

Ann would never get used to sitting at her father’s desk.

Perhaps that was part of the problem. It was her father’s, with his things on it still; a collection of rocks from his travels, his writing set, his small brass scope. Every time she sat in his stiff wooden chair, she felt twelve again, playing pretend. It was a game when she was a child, but now she was an impostor. Everyone around her knew.

Ann sat, her hands folded, waiting for William Priestly—her advisor and cousin—to arrive. The clock ticked in the background. She crossed her ankles. Repositioned the scope. Bounced her foot. With a sigh, she glanced at the clock. Less than a minute had passed.

This isn’t my desk, Ann thought. She shouldn’t be here. After smoothing the skirt of her dress, she stood and paced around the study instead. His bookshelves were haphazardly filled with diagrams and war manuals, scrolls of maps and accounting records. Things she had no idea what to do with.

Her brother would know how to do this, she thought bitterly. It was supposed to be him, if he hadn’t died just a year before her parents. She was left looking doe-eyed and stupid, a weak-willed queen whose hand needed to be held through the most simple of tasks.

Ann resented herself. Everyone around her took advantage of her weakness. She must have seemed a child to Captain Lister the day before. Going all that way to thank her for not acting like she should be put away. Yet her kindness made Ann braver. Maybe, Ann thought, she could make a friend.

Ann stepped out of the study door. “Ser Washington,” she said.

He turned around, his expression concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“Can you tell me if Captain Lister will be on duty this morning?”

“Er, no, your majesty. She is on the evening rotation today.”

“Of course. Thank you,” Ann said, masking disappointment. She ought to get a copy of the guard rotation. For her own knowledge, of course, regardless of pursuing a friendship with Captain Lister.

“Leaving already, Ann?” her cousin called from across the hallway. He had her aunt at his elbow, guiding her along.

Ann pursed her lips and didn’t answer. Her aunt never took part in her father’s meetings with his advisor, yet now she felt entitled to intervene. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject without hurting her aunt’s feelings, though, and invited them both inside.

Ann sat at her father’s desk while her cousin and aunt took the cushioned chairs on the opposite side. They each smiled at her as though she should say something, so Ann said, “Er, so, what do we have to discuss this week?”

“Only a few things, Ann—er, your majesty,” he corrected, winking. Ann pursed her lips. He continued, “The first item is a military venture. Before he passed, your father had plans to expand the kingdom to the south. Our armies are large enough to secure significant territory and our coffers full enough to supply them.”

Ann blinked. “Why?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, why do it at all?”

“To expand the kingdom under your reign, your majesty. It leaves a legacy. In an economic sense, we collect more taxes, get more natural resources, more land. There is little downside, considering we can afford it.”

“Doesn’t that mean we’re sending soldiers to war?”

“Of course. It’s their job, they signed up for it,” he said, stifling a laugh.

“I just feel that a war should be necessary? This would be for excess. We have wealth, we don’t need more, especially at the cost of soldiers’ lives,” Ann said, troubled. “I wouldn’t want to die for this, would you?”

Priestly’s face turned a full shade of red. “Sure I would—if I was a soldier, and signed up for it,” he blustered. “This is how your family got your wealth in the first place, your majesty. It is the way things are.”

“Why do you think people sign up to be soldiers?” Ann pondered aloud. She thought immediately of Captain Lister, who used to be a soldier, and resolved to ask her.

“For glory? Comradery? To get away from their families? I’m sure each answer is different, your majesty.”

“I don’t want to go forward with it,” Ann declared.

“Ann,” Priestly began, exasperated. “The soldiers will start getting rowdy if we don’t give them something to do. They’ll disturb the towns, take to the drink. It would be a disaster.”

Ann frowned. She said, “Then maybe we should give them something to do? Why do we have thousands of able-bodied people just waiting around for a war to happen?”

“Well, they aren’t ‘waiting around,’ they have a training regimen. They need to be ready in the event we are targeted by another expanding kingdom.”

“Yes, I understand that, but can’t we have them build roads or something in the meantime, instead of seeking out pointless wars and starting needless feuds with other kingdoms to keep them busy?”

“Well, we certainly could, but they still need to be prepared to defend the country.”

“Then it’s settled. Whoever’s job it is to figure out how to do both at the same time can work on that instead of—” she waved her hand as she searched for the word “—conquest.”
Resigned, her cousin said, “I will inform General Rawson.”

“Him. Yes.”

“He won’t be pleased, your majesty. Conquest is as much a general’s legacy as it is a king’s or queen’s.”

Ann faltered a little. She said, “Well, I don’t go out of my way to make anyone upset, but I do have to make a decision.”

“He’ll likely want to talk to you himself, Ann,” her cousin said, his frustration turning to concern. “He’s not a kind man, nor a man to make an enemy of.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to arrange an appointment where he can share his concerns openly,” Ann said, picking at her dress under the desk. General Rawson intimidated her.

“What else is on our agenda?”

Priestly and Aunt Ann shared a look. Ann looked between them with growing anxiety. Her cousin opened his mouth and then paused, considering his words. Her aunt eyed him pointedly, a look Ann knew well, as if to say, “Get on with it.”

“This is a bit more personal,” he said, choosing each word carefully. “It concerns your, well, how do I say it simply—”

“You need a husband,” her aunt blurted. “The kingdom is already unstable, with your brother, and then your parents. You need to settle. Have a family. Share the responsibility.”

“Possibly make an alliance,” her cousin added.

Ann shrank in her seat. A husband. She managed to turn down every proposal in the past, of which there were many, but she couldn’t do it forever. Ann was incapable of love. She knew that, having never felt affection or desire for a man. Her requirements for a betrothal quickly transformed from love to a man whose presence or touch who didn’t churn her gut, who didn’t want anything intimate from her, and who offered a political alliance so her family might think her less of a failure. Any man had yet to fulfill all three.

Ann opened her mouth to speak, but her aunt interrupted her. “You’re having tea with Duke Ainsworth today, correct?” she asked.

Ann grimaced. “I rescheduled for later this week,” Ann said. “I wasn’t feeling well this morning.”

Her aunt clicked her tongue. She scolded, “Well, you can’t be doing that, dear. He’s eligible, handsome, and his armies are well equipped. If you set him off like that, he’ll think you’re not interested.”

Ann bit her tongue. Duke Ainsworth’s presence stirred her gut like a storm. Whenever they were in a room together, he eyed her as a wolf might a sheep. At the winter ball two years ago, wherever she went in the castle, whoever she was with, he was always only feet away.

Her cousin nodded feverish agreement. “Your aunt is right, Ann. The Duke is an excellent match. He is even known throughout the realm for his philanthropic work with the less fortunate,” he said. Then added, with a touch of humor, “I’m sure you may even find him sympathetic to your philosophy on conquest.”

“Hmm,” Ann grunted, sure that they would mistake it as agreement.

Satisfied, Priestly moved on to the next topic, something about implementing new taxes in one of their territories. Ann played with her father’s scope, adjusting the lens, collapsing and extending it, allowing her mind to wander.

Images of a young Captain Lister as a soldier played in her mind. Long, dark hair wet and untamed, splayed over a painted face with grit teeth. At the center of a circle of enemies, her movements lithe and practiced, more like a dance than random savagery. Armor gleaming in the sun, a bloodied sword, and a somber expression as she mourned the death that had to happen that day.

“What do you think, your majesty?” her cousin asked, pulling her back to earth.

Ann started. “What?”

He narrowed his eyes. “This is important work, Ann. You need to pay attention,” he said. He reiterated his points for whatever question he asked her, and Ann nodded as he spoke, her thoughts again drifting to Captain Lister.

Their interaction the day before played in her head. Ann rarely walked the dim, dusty hallways of the Royal Library. Her memories of the place were dull research for her tutor, and frustration at its haphazard organization. Yet the captain’s face, alight with reverence when she spoke about the books and the wonder they contained for her, made Ann wonder if she hadn’t given it enough of a chance.

Captain Lister herself was just as much of a wonder. The black coat accentuated the sharp lines of her body, regal yet gentle. Ann had never been so close to her, felt her warmth, or caught the spicy scent of her perfume. Her chest burned at the thought of the captain leaning over her shoulder and murmuring softly in her ear. If she had only turned her head just a little.

“I need you to track down a book for me,” Ann said, interrupting her cousin.

“Uh, I—yes,” he stuttered, “absolutely. On what topic?”

“The human brain. A medical book.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”

“It sounds interesting,” Ann said, nonchalant. “If one isn’t in the library, pay any expenses. Since our coffers can handle it.”

“Sure,” he said, making a note, clearly bewildered. “And your opinion on the tax?”

“Yes,” Ann said, waving her hand. “Your idea is a good one,” she added, having no inkling what his idea was.

“Excellent,” Priestly said, grinning. “Well, your majesty, that’s all the items on my list. If you don’t mind, I need to get your Aunt back to her room, it looks like she needs to rest.”

“Of course,” Ann said. “Thank you.”

They left, Aunt Ann scolding her cousin as they travelled down the hallway, voices echoing. Ann closed the door, then lay in the cushioned couch at the opposite end of the room and closed her eyes.

Ann dozed quickly, wrapped in her father’s flannel blanket as she did so often as a child. With his meetings in the background, she pretended to sleep, hoping to be privy to sensitive conversations filled with drama and excitement. Most of the time they were drab, and she fell asleep anyway. Now that she was queen, she wished she could lay in the back and rest instead.

Ann’s dream was strange and obscure. Images flitted back and forth. Shadows. A flash of lightning. A gathering storm. Captain Lister wielding a shimmering sword, fighting an unseen enemy. Ann searched for who it was, but when she looked closer, the captain dissipated to mist. The sword remained. Ann reached out to pick it up, but when she touched it, it winked away.

A sharp knock on the door jerked Ann awake. The blanket lay twisted underneath her, and had peppered her cheek with rough indents while she slept. She touched her cheek and grimaced; she’d drooled, too.

Ann cleared her throat, then called, “Come in.”

A manservant entered, looked over at the desk, then at the couch. “Your majesty,” he said. “Dinner is ready. Would you prefer it to be brought here?”

“No, no,” Ann said. “I will go to the table. I’m sure my aunt would prefer it.”

The servant bowed and left. Ann brushed what wrinkles she could out of her dress, then stood. Outside the door, she turned to tell Washington where she was going, but choked off when it was Captain Lister’s face looking back at her.

Ann cleared her throat again, conscious of her puffy, sleep-weary eyes.

“Evening, captain,” she said as brightly as she could. She didn’t quite meet the captain’s eyes, but stared at her lips, the wisps of brown hair tucked behind her ear, and the intricate engraving on her gorget before blushing and staring at the floor.

If Captain Lister noticed, she pretended otherwise. She said, “Good evening, your majesty. Is there something you need?”

“Yes, actually. I have a couple of questions for you. One is more personal. We could discuss it over tea, when you have time?”

“Of course. I am available before evening rotation tomorrow. And the other question?”

“More of a request. I would like a copy of the guard rotation schedule, if possible.”

Captain Lister bowed her head. “I will bring one tomorrow.”

Ann smiled to herself while she walked to dinner. Captain Lister followed behind her, a respectful distance away.

Chapter Text

Captain Lister was punctual. Ann expected nothing less.

Just outside the door, the captain stopped to talk to the on-duty guard. The low tones of her voice trailed into the room, spurring Ann to action. Ann frantically circled her father’s desk, adjusted the trinkets on it, straightened the chairs opposite it, and noticed too late that the blanket from yesterday’s accidental nap lay tousled on the couch. She cursed her laziness.

The captain knocked on the doorframe.

Ann jumped, still holding her father’s scope. She set it down on the desk, but her trembling hands knocked it over and sent it rolling across the wood, spilling a jar of dragon teeth on the floor. Ann pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep, slow breath.

“Come in,” Ann called, sweeping the bones back into the jar with her hand.

Captain Lister entered with the remnants of a laugh in her eyes and her helmet under her arm.

She looked like the kind of knight one would write a poem about, Ann thought. The captain’s freshly brushed brown hair was braided and swept over one shoulder. Her polished armor shimmered in the thin beams of sunlight filtering into the study. The youth Ann remembered had bloomed into a woman who held herself with calm poise, her cocky grin replaced by a calculated gaze, eyes beginning to crinkle at the corners.

The captain bowed and said, “Good afternoon, your majesty.”

“And to you,” Ann replied breathlessly. She gestured with the jar of teeth. “Sit down. Please. Wherever you like.”

The captain chose one of the chairs across from the desk. She untied the scabbard from her waist and lay it and the helmet on the floor with a dull clunk.

Ann glanced at the desk, then sat next to Captain Lister instead.

The captain raised an eyebrow. She said, “You prefer not to sit at the desk?”

Ann grimaced. “I’m more comfortable here. It’s my father’s desk,” she explained. “It feels strange. Like it doesn’t belong to me.”

“Yes,” Captain Lister said. She looked around. “This room looks exactly the same as it did when it belonged to him. I’m surprised you haven’t added your own charm.”

“Oh, but I meet with all sorts in here. I’m afraid if I made it more me it wouldn’t be as—as regal,” Ann said nervously. “If I took his things out, it’d be empty, anyway. I’ve never been a soldier, I’ve barely travelled, and my interests are, well, not very interesting to most people.”

Captain Lister frowned. “I’ve seen you paint over the years, your majesty. Surely no educated or worldly person would think that an uninteresting hobby?”

Ann blushed. “Yes, I suppose you would know my hobbies. I do love to paint all kinds of things,” Ann said. She looked at the wall above the desk, which currently sported a rack of massive elk antlers, a trophy from one of her father’s hunting trips as a youth. “One of my landscapes might go nicely there.”

“Which one?” Captain Lister asked, leaning in. Ann’s blush deepened, because the captain looked genuinely interested.

The captain’s face was so close. Warm brown eyes. A wisp of gray hair tucked behind her ear. Soft pink lips. Ann folded her hands together at her lap.

“I did a large painting of the river to the east months ago from a sketch. I made the sketch a few years ago, with my brother. Before he died. We went to the river together that day, just to get out of the castle,” Ann said, smiling at the bittersweet memory.

“Ah, yes, I was lucky enough to be on duty while you were finishing that one. I knew when you were doing the details on the water, because you bite your lip when you concentrate,” Captain Lister said, touching her own lip with a finger.

Ann laughed. She said, “I didn’t realize anyone watched me. I get so focused when I paint. Everything else just. Melts away.”

“Have I made you uncomfortable?”

“Oh! No,” Ann said firmly. “No. I’m just surprised you remember. What do you think about putting it there?” Ann looked up at the elk antlers again, sure the painting was smaller than she remembered, or was too boring for the room, or wasn’t painted skillfully enough, or—

“I think it will look perfect,” the captain said. “Certainly better than all this. There’s far too much masculinity in this room to befit a person as lovely and intelligent as you. You rule with such kindness and thoughtfulness, your majesty, it would make sense for your study to reflect that.”

“You think too kindly of me,” Ann said bitterly. “Anyone else would say I’m weak and dull.”

Captain Lister’s eyebrows furrowed. She squeezed Ann’s hand and said seriously, “Then they’re fools. All one has to do to know otherwise is listen to you speak.”

Ann didn’t know what to say. She placed her other hand over the captain’s, intertwining their fingers. “I wish I had your confidence,” she said. “Sometimes I get so caught up in my head, I let it control me.”

The captain squeezed her hand, then took hers back, scratching her neck. Ann’s cheeks burned; she must have overstepped. Too friendly too fast, she thought, scolding herself.

Clearing her throat, Captain Lister said, “You asked me here for a reason, your majesty. A personal question?”

“Oh. Yes. My advisor and I were talking about a, well, a possible military venture yesterday and got into a bit of an argument about whether it was critical enough to risk soldiers’ lives, and that got me thinking ‘why do people become soldiers anyway, if they know some monarch they’ve never met has absolute control over their lives, and might ask them to die for something stupid at any time?’”

“Is that—is that your question?”

Rambling idiot, she cursed herself. Shaking her head, she said, “That was probably more context for the question than you needed. I’m wondering, why did you become a soldier?”

Captain Lister eyed her curiously. “My family needed money, your majesty. That’s why most of us join, it pays better than anything else. I did love the idea of travelling, that was my favorite part. And why I signed up for another three years. That, and I was good at it.”

“And if you’re asked to fight for something meaningless, don’t you get upset? Like the person who made the decision sees you as a tool and not as a—a person?”

The captain’s expression softened. “We don’t really bother ourselves with hows and whys, your majesty. Doing so would be useless. We follow orders, and hope we get lucky.”

Ann sat back in the chair, pondering. An image of a young Captain Lister played in her mind again, only a horrifying one. At the center of a battlefield, exhausted. Stopping to breathe at the wrong moment. The shield too heavy, moving too slow. Caught in the gut by an enemy’s sword, her own only inches away from their neck. One body among thousands in a bloody field. In the chair next to Ann, someone else. A stranger.

“That’s horrible,” were the only words Ann managed to say.

“I don’t regret my time as a soldier, your majesty. It opened the path to becoming a knight,” Captain Lister said, a small smile on her lips.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard how you became a knight.”

“At the end of my sixth year in the army, when I was twenty-one, I became acquainted with a knight named Ser Eliza Raine. She asked me to squire for her. Her lord was an adventurous man, so we travelled across the kingdom.”

“And why aren’t you serving him?”

“A few months after she knighted me, we...had a falling out.”

“Oh.” Ann paused, thinking. “A falling out of a personal nature? It’s not my business, of course.”

The captain blushed. “Er—yes. It was personal. I thought it best not to stick around, so I pledged myself to Duke Lawton of Light Fen. I’d become acquainted with his wife.

“And then I joined the kingsguard, and officially surrendered my land to my sister. I hadn’t been home for more than a few weeks at a time in years, but it was a difficult decision. I love my home and my family, your majesty. But there’s something about being in the middle of all of this that absolutely fascinates me.”

Ann smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Captain Lister,” she said, looking up at her. The blush had yet to fade from her cheeks. “Thank you for being so candid. I know it’s silly, but getting to know you has been nice.”

“I feel the same,” she said, grinning.

“I have one more, um, question.”

“What do you need?”

“When I have tea with Duke Ainsworth on Wednesday, would you stand inside of the room instead of outside?” Ann said, looking at the floor.

“Yes,” Captain Lister answered immediately. Then she paused, considering her words. “Forgive me if I overstep. Do you feel unsafe with him?”

Ann nodded.

“Why are you having tea with him, if you feel unsafe?” she asked. “I don’t mean to question you. I only want to understand the nuances of the situation, your majesty. As your guard.”

Ann sighed. “It’s my advisors. My family. They think I would be a more effective queen if I settled,” she said, seething.

“Do you want to settle?”

“Not with him!” Ann sputtered. “They keep saying confusing, contradicting things like ‘we should expand the kingdom, it’s the perfect time’ and ‘the kingdom is unstable, you need to find a husband.’ Well, which is it?”

Ann’s hands were fists in her lap. The captain reached over, placing her hand lightly on top of Ann’s.

“It sounds to me like they have their own agenda for the kingdom, and they’re trying to take advantage of you. Anyone in your place would be just as frustrated,” Captain Lister said. Her thumb rubbed soothing circles over Ann’s knuckles.

“And if that wasn’t enough, I’m about to make an enemy of General Rawson. I can barely stand up to my cousin, how can I defend my decision against him?” Ann said, frowning.

“Ah,” Captain Lister said. “That man is responsible for one or two of my gray hairs. He is difficult, but not as intelligent as he pretends to be.”

“I know I can just say, ‘I’m the queen, and you defer to me, the decision has been made,’ but I don’t want our relationship to be antagonistic for the entirety of my rule.”

The captain nodded. “That is a good assessment. Unfortunately, he has a history of being tremendously unprofessional. As I’m sure you know,” she said.

“Yes, my cousin has warned me. He seems just as nervous as I about Rawson, so I’m hoping he’ll be of some use during the conversation,” Ann said. She sighed. “Thank you for listening to my worries. I don’t really have anyone to talk to about them.”

Ann flushed at the admission. Childish, she scolded herself. A queen shouldn’t be seen like this.

“Anytime, your majesty,” Captain Lister said, as if Ann hadn’t just laid herself bare. She glanced at the clock, then exclaimed, “Six already? It hasn’t been four hours.”

“I’m sorry to have kept you so long,” Ann said, standing. Her hands worried the waist of her dress. “I’m sure you had a list of things you needed to do before now.”

“I cleared my entire afternoon, your majesty,” Captain Lister said, grinning. She stood and bowed. “Thank you for your time. It was a pleasure getting to know you.”

“I’m only humbled by how lucky I am to have you in my service,” Ann said. Her heart skipped when the captain took her hand and kissed it.

Ann’s cheeks hurt from smiling. Yet she grinned to herself throughout dinner, sneaking glances at the captain between bites. When her aunt asked her what was wrong, she said, “I had a wonderful conversation today. Also, we need to find storage for father’s elk antlers. I’m going to hang one of my paintings in the study.”

***

Standing guard outside the queen’s quarters, Anne replayed their conversation that afternoon in her head a thousand times. Their hands touching, faces close. She was mortified, sure that the queen felt her heart throbbing, the air buzzing between them, filling Anne’s mind with enough static that she entertained the thought of kissing the queen, even for half a second.

It was inappropriate, regardless of the queen’s affection for her. Her affair with a duchess was inappropriate enough—but the queen? No. She must wash herself of these feelings entirely. Anne rubbed her palms on her sash, as though it would rid her of the memory of the queen’s soft, delicate hands.

“Cap? Are you—um, are you alright?” Booth asked from beside her. “You’ve been shaking your head and muttering to yourself for the past—for some time now.”

“Yes,” Anne said, with no intention to offer an explanation.

Booth sucked in a breath. It clearly took him awhile to summon the courage to ask her. He nodded to himself. “Okay. Yep. Alright, then.”

They stood in awkward silence. Booth whistled a tune Anne didn’t recognize. Anne stared forward, scolding herself every time her mind wandered to thoughts of the queen. Under her breath, she dictated her schedule for the next week. Time, place, task. It worked until she got to 10AM Wednesday, the queen’s meeting with Ainsworth. She imagined all the things she would do to him if he even looked at her wrong.

“Your majesty?” Booth asked, pulling Anne back to reality.

Anne turned. The queen stood in the doorway, face pale and hair unkempt. She squinted up at Anne, her eyes adjusting to the lamp-lit hallway.

“It’s so loud—it’s—it’s just like last time,” she whispered. She gripped Anne’s arm with a trembling hand. “Is this one real?”

A flash of lightning bathed the room behind her in crisp white, followed immediately by a clap of thunder. The queen’s grip tightened on her wrist. Wind howled through the trees like a slow, erratic dirge. She shuddered, cowering into Anne. Anne fought the urge to wrap her arm around the queen’s waist and hold her there, rocking her until she was calm.

“Yes,” Anne said. “It’s real.”

“I thought so,” she said, voice frantic. “There are no visions, but—” she squeaked as another clap of thunder shook the room “—I kept closing my eyes, waiting for them to come.”

“You are safe, your majesty,” Anne assured her. “Ser Booth and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Booth nodded feverish agreement.

“I know, I know,” the queen said, trembling. She looked up at Anne, her bright blue eyes wide with terror. Suppressing a sob, she whispered, “Sorry to bother you. Goodnight.”

The queen edged back to her bed with a hand held in front of her, as if walking into the sun. A third flash lit the room as she lifted the covers, tucking into what would no doubt be fitful sleep. The thunder was softer this time, as though it retreated further into the heavens. Anne watched her small, shadowed shape toss and turn, pulling the covers over her head.

Pity welling in her gut, Anne closed the door.

“Do you ever worry for her health?” Booth muttered after the door clicked shut.

“She is incredibly lonely,” Anne whispered. “I wonder if it’s not all her anxiety bottled up, and she unleashes it upon herself bits at a time.”

“You’d think with all her family and connections, she’d have a friend to talk to,” Booth mused aloud.

Anne pursed her lips, thinking.

Chapter Text

On the day of the queen’s meeting with Duke Ainsworth, Anne was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. It was an accident, really. It happened incrementally. Her breakfast was in front of her, and then it was gone, eaten before she’d even finished opening her letters. She’d lost time when her boots refused to tie up properly. She gained it again at the training grounds, when not even twenty minutes in, the dummy in front of her shed nearly all its straw.

Washington looked on with contained surprise. “Are you alright, ser?” he asked cautiously, testing her mood. “That dummy certainly isn’t having a good day.”

“Yes,” Anne said, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. She rested the tip of her sword on the ground. He offered her water, and she added, “Just off my equilibrium today.”

“Any particular reason?”

“The queen has requested one of us to be present in the room during her meeting with Duke Ainsworth today,” she said, then took a drink from the waterskin. “She doesn’t trust him.”

Washington nodded. “Yes, he’s known for being…rather bold.”

“You’ve heard of this?”

“Er—yes. You’ve always been next to the king at balls and parties, ser, I’m sure it doesn’t reach your ears so readily. Ladies talk, and sometimes we overhear—”

“What do they talk about?” Anne pressed.

“He makes advances. Unwanted ones. Often on women above his station. Especially when he was a youth.”

“Hmm.” Anne took another drink. Ainsworth would be simple enough to deal with. Her presence alone made men like that cower. Anne could stop him from touching the queen if he tried, but she couldn’t return the words dribbling from his mouth.

“Not like you to be nervous about a man like him, Captain,” Washington said, eyebrows knit with concern.

Anne laughed. “I wouldn’t even need my sword to cut him open,” she agreed. “I’m worried the queen might have a harder time. She’s so anxious and riddles herself with self-deprecating thoughts and phrases. Men like him make a sport of manipulating people with words. I’m worried this meeting will make things worse,” she said grimly.

“Do you mean — the visions?” he whispered.

Anne nodded. “She’s already unsettled just thinking about the meeting. And her family are insisting—forcing this anxiety on her. She tells them she wants otherwise, and they act like, well, like she’s a child and not the queen.”

“Yes, it does make our job harder when we’ve got to worry about real threats as well as…perceived ones,” he said.

Anne opened her mouth to say she was more so concerned with the queen’s well-being, but thought better of it. Her feelings for the queen were dangerous enough without Washington suspecting them. Instead, she cleaned her armor and sword of mud and began her walk around the perimeter.

The days were growing slightly warmer; the frost on the grass had already melted to dew. She walked at a brisk pace, her mind turning.

The problem of Ainsworth and the queen’s visions aside, Anne had to contend with her growing affection for the queen. She avoided it all those years before, admiring her beauty from afar, even convincing herself the queen didn’t care for her. It wasn’t hard. Anne had a history of rubbing people the wrong way.

The queen clearly felt a tenderness for her, though she likely didn’t know what it was. Eventually, some kind of realization might surface for the queen, and Anne didn’t want to be caught in that mess. Leading her on was far, far too risky. The only thing she could do was wait for these feelings to dwindle, or quell them herself. Suffocate a flame, she thought, and it’s stifled.

Anne arrived at the queen’s quarters fifteen minutes early. James gave her a puzzled look. He blustered, “You’re—”

“I’m early,” she interrupted. “By fifteen minutes. Yes, I know. I’m off my equilibrium today.”

“Do you want me to—”

“No, you don’t need to stay. Washington will be here soon,” she said, dismissing him.

Only a few minutes after James left, Washington came through the door, breathing heavily. “Sorry ser, I tried to follow you,” he gasped, “but you walk very fast.”

“I’ve been told,” Anne muttered, checking the time. 7:50AM. The walk cleared her head. Deep breaths steadied her stream of thoughts until the queen was ready for breakfast at 9AM.

“Good morning,” the queen said brightly to them both.

“How are you feeling, your majesty?” Anne asked as they walked to the dining room.

“Nervous. I doubt I’ll be able to eat, to be honest. He’s just so…ugh,” she said, making a face. Then she muttered, “You can probably tell, because I’m talking so much.”

“On the contrary, you’re the image of perfect calm,” Anne said, smiling.

The queen giggled, a flush coloring her cheeks. Anne caught herself staring.

Her family was already assembled in the dining room when they arrived. They began chattering excitedly about Duke Ainsworth, giving her tips, adjusting her clothes, and pinching her cheeks to redden them. She caught Anne’s eye and grimaced.

“You two have become friendly,” Washington said, a smile on the corner of his mouth.

Anne turned around and rolled her eyes at him. She said, “We had tea, and it went well. I think she finds me easy to talk to.”

“Surrounded by that lot? A rock is probably pleasant to talk to,” he said. Catching himself, he muttered, “I shouldn’t say that, of course. I’m sure you’re fine company, captain.”

Anne arched an eyebrow but said, “You’re not entirely off the mark.”

Washington chuckled.

Behind them, the royal family continued their barrage of comments and suggestions while the queen ate breakfast in silence.

“I do hope you give him a chance, dear, it would relieve me to see you settled,” her aunt said.

“He’s very handsome,” Catherine gushed.

Anne never took a liking to the queen’s close friend. Catherine visited in the summers when she and Ann were little girls, always fearful of the wide castle corridors in the night. More than once, Anne burst into the girls’ room in the night, drawn by a high-pitched scream or a fearful call. When the girls grew older, Catherine continued to come —only to court the prince. Now she stayed for good instead of just in the summers, a reminder of what her place might have been. 

“He’s surrounded by plenty of women at balls, there must be a reason they’re so enamored with him,” Priestly said through a mouthful of food.

They each took their turn, some comments devolving into arguments—namely, whether the queen should change her dress. While they spoke, the queen removed herself into her own world. She ate her breakfast mechanically and methodically, sliding each bite onto her fork and lifting it slowly into her mouth.

If only it weren’t out of her place to engage the queen in polite conversation, Anne thought. She could use a distraction from all this. Something as light and small as a touch on the shoulder would do, or a whispered joke in her ear. Anne longed to combat their unkind comments with her honest thoughts: when Aunt Ann mused, “That yellow dress is a bit mature for you, dear,” Anne might have said, “You look divine, your majesty, and my day is brighter for having seen you in this dress.”

The end of breakfast seemed to bring no relief to the queen. Anne tried to catch her eye, but the queen walked briskly past her, staring forward with a glazed look in her eyes. They followed her to the study, where Washington took post outside the door and Anne near the desk.

Anne noted with a touch of pride that the painting was already hung above her. It was more intricate than she remembered; each leaf on the trees surrounding the river caught the sunlight differently, transforming the still painting into an image that shimmered with different hues of green and yellow. The painting was a good choice, Anne thought. It showcased the queen’s aesthetic and talent.

Next to Anne, the queen looked up at it with a critical eye.

“I should have done the shores differently,” the queen muttered, tracing the curve of it with her finger. “It’s not so jagged and rocky, in reality.”

Anne didn’t hold back her laugh. “I was just thinking how beautiful and skillful it was,” she said.

“Hmm.”

“Are you alright, your majesty?”

The queen sighed, but kept her expression blank. “My mind can’t focus on anything else. I just want to get this over with.”

The queen sat in her desk and let the large, cushioned chair swallow her like she was a child. They waited in silence for Ainsworth to arrive, like prisoners in line for a guillotine. The clock ticked loudly in the quiet, and as the queen wilted, Anne steeled herself.

Duke Ainsworth arrived five minutes late, edging past Washington into the study. He was a caricature onto himself, his richly colored clothes and deep bow to the queen made even more unnecessary because of the person Anne knew him to be. He smiled at the queen in a way Anne supposed ordinary women might find charming, then he glanced at Anne, and his brow furrowed.

“Good morning, your majesty. I am so pleased you agreed to meet with me again, it has been too long. You look even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said. His eyes wavered to Anne as he spoke, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

The queen’s response was measured, the control in her tone undermined only by the slightest of stuttering, “Of course, Duke Ainsworth, I will meet with any duke or lord who visits this city. What was the matter you wished to discuss?”

“Oh, um, this isn’t a formal appointment, your majesty. Just tea! I’d hoped we could have a more...personal conversation.”

The queen stifled a sigh. “Such as?”

The duke gestured to the couch at the back of the room, where Anne’s view was partially obstructed by a display case of pinned insects. He asked, “Might we move to the more comfortable seats instead, your majesty?”

The queen bit her cheek. “S-sure.”

They moved to the back of the room, just as the servants brought tea. The queen took a seat on the couch, while Ainsworth waved them away, pouring the queen a cup and handing it to her.

Anne crossed the room to the window, pretending to inspect a baby dragon skull, about the length of her forearm. Watching the duke in her peripheral vision, she turned the skull in her hands. The duke followed Anne’s movement across the room. He frowned.

“Do you always let your guards be privy to private meetings?” he asked the queen.

The queen set the teacup and saucer on her lap. She stared at the tea when she answered, “I trust Captain Lister with my life. If her instincts are to be in here, I have no objections.”

Duke Ainsworth clicked his tongue. He addressed Anne this time, “Could you leave us alone for a minute, please? I have sensitive matters to discuss with the queen.”

“No,” Anne said. She traced the skull’s blackened, curved fangs with a fingertip.

“I wasn’t asking, ser.”

Anne looked pointedly at him and remained where she was.

The duke glanced at the queen, who chose that moment to take a sip from her cup. “Very well,” he said, and sat next to her. She recoiled from him, clearly uncomfortable.

Anne set down the skull. “Your grace,” she said sharply, taking a step toward him. “Please show appropriate respect and deference to the queen and sit in another chair.”

“Why can’t we be friends, ser? The queen invited me here, I was simply answering her call.”

“We don’t know each other well, your grace, but you’ll learn two things about me very quickly: I take her majesty’s safety seriously, and I’m not very trusting. Now, if you’ll humor me, pick another chair.”

The duke pursed his lips, but obeyed her. The queen beamed at her.

Anne meandered the perimeter of the room, inspecting the various artifacts left by the queen’s father. She listened intently to their conversation, which consisted of the duke speaking while the queen stared past him. When she was in the far corner, the duke leaned closer to the queen, as if to share a secret.

He whispered, “I’ve heard about your vision, your majesty. During the storm.”

The queen paled. “How do you—how do you know about that?”

“Perhaps your guards talk,” he suggested, eyeing Anne. “Not to worry, no one will be hearing about it from me. I have similar dreams myself, in fact.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dreams of loved ones dying in storms. My sister died during a storm, in fact. And every time the thunder shakes my home, I relive that terrible day,” he said, a tear welling in his eye. “Sometimes it isn’t even storming, and I imagine the storm myself.”

The queen glanced at Ainsworth, then at Anne, and back at the duke. Her hands began to tremble. “How do you make it stop?” she whispered back.

“I don’t,” he said. Then he gingerly rested a hand on the queen’s knee. “But I’ve always wondered if the presence of love in my life would help.”

Both the queen and the duke jumped at the metallic scraping of Anne’s sword against her scabbard. She withdrew it only partially, enough to intimidate the duke as she threatened him. “This is the last time I will ask, your grace. Please remove your hand from the queen.”

He obeyed, throwing his hands in the air. “Now listen here,” he began, fuming, “You continually misread my actions, and have embarrassed me now multiple times in front of her majesty.”

Anne pursed her lips and returned the sword to its scabbard.

The duke turned to the queen. “Are all of your guards so disrespectful?” he said.

The queen sipped her tea, and set the saucer on the table. Anne noticed a small smile touched her lips. “You are embarrassed by your own actions, Duke Ainsworth. Ser Lister is the captain of my kingsguard, a position she has kept for five years since my father appointed her. I trust her judgement,” she said, winking at Anne.

The duke stood. “Forgive me for leaving so suddenly, your majesty. I’m afraid Ser Lister has disagreements with my presence, despite your kindness and hospitality,” he said. He bowed, then waited for her to offer her hand.

She didn’t. “You are forgiven, Duke Ainsworth.”

The duke flexed his jaw, then turned toward the door. Anne stepped aside to let him through, but he stopped. With the queen in earshot, Duke Ainsworth said loudly, “I’d make an effort to be more respectful in the future, ser. Men kinder than me might have challenged you over it.” He patted the sword at his waist that was more decoration than weapon.

“Any man willing to bring a toothpick to a duel isn’t worth my time,” Anne said coldly. “I am a knight, Duke Ainsworth, not a common servant or guard. I have callings higher than posturing and pageantry.”

For a moment, Anne wondered if he would draw his sword. He flushed crimson, opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Then he pushed past Anne, walking briskly down the hallway while muttering to himself.

“That went well,” Anne said under her breath.

“Did it?” the queen asked. “I felt a bit rude, but there’s really no kind way of having a conversation like that, is there?”

“He invited that conversation upon himself,” Anne said. “There’s nothing you could have done differently, your majesty.”

The queen walked shyly next to Anne, then traced a delicate finger over the carvings in her gurget. The blue of the queen’s eyes was clear and bright, like a still lake. The queen was so close, Anne caught the floral scent of her perfume. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She fought to keep her breathing steady under the light pressure of the queen’s finger on her armor.

“I’m just glad you were here,” the queen said.

“Me, too,” Anne whispered. She wanted to say something about how she could have snapped the duke in half like a twig, how he did, indeed, seem like a wolf in a coat, but she found it difficult to say anything at all with the queen right there, looking so lovely.

“Oh, and I can finally eat,” the queen said, stepping away from her with a grin. She picked one of the frosted pastries from the platter next to the teapot. She took a bite, flakes and frosting sprinkling into her hand. She sighed. “These are delicious. Have one, captain, you deserve it.”

Anne stood closer to her, but didn’t take one of the pastries. She gazed at the queen, who had a dab of frosting at the corner of her mouth. She pointed at the corner of her own mouth and said, “You have a bit here.”

The queen wiped the wrong side of her mouth with a napkin. “Did I get it?”

Anne smiled, taking another step closer. Moving slowly enough that the queen could reject her if she wanted, Anne wiped a smudge of frosting off the corner of the queen’s lip with her thumb.

The queen covered her mouth and laughed. “Oh, you protect me from everything, don’t you? Even embarrassment.”

Anne only laughed, cleaning her hand on a napkin. They shared a smile.

Chapter Text

Ann stared at the smooth, polished wood of the desk, willing herself to stay calm while her aunt and cousin plucked problems and anxieties from her brain like farmers during harvest. They hurled them back at Ann, one after another, without waiting or caring for a reply. Ann rarely saw her family so upset.

“Why, I’m surprised she doesn’t have a guard stationed in here right now, watching our every move!” Aunt Ann exclaimed, hands shaking in her lap.

“It really was unnecessary, Ann,” Priestly said more amicably. He glanced between Ann and her aunt over his glasses.

“I—”

Her aunt interrupted, “And then to have the guard threatening me with a sword, just for raising my voice!”

Ann pinched the bridge of her nose. She already woke up exhausted, an invisible storm crashing through her the previous night, excavating memories she’d tried to bury forever. It was worse than before. Instead of just bleeding from her forehead, the captain staggered toward her, fear hallowing her eyes. Then Ann’s mother was propped up on the bed, blood as black as chocolate dribbling from her mouth in stark white moonlight.

“I think it’s time for a new captain, dear,” her aunt continued. “This one’s judgement is faulty.”

“Kingsguard serve for life, of course,” her cousin quickly added, “This would be a simple demotion. Perhaps Washington is a better choice?”

“No,” Ann said, before anyone could interrupt her. “It wasn’t Captain Lister’s decision to be in the room, it was mine.”

“I’ve never felt the captain was the right choice. Your parents died with the kingsguard under her command,” her aunt said, as though Ann hadn’t spoken.

“There wasn’t anything she could have done differently,” Ann said. She rubbed her palms over her eyes to ease her growing headache. “We still don’t know how the assassin got in.”

Aunt Ann scoffed. Her cousin protested, but a ringing in Ann’s ears drowned out his words, and last night’s events washed through her.

James asked, “Should we—get a doctor, your majesty?”

“No,” Ann gasped.

The memory of her mother was embedded in her eyes. Was it a memory, or something else? Had Ann even seen her parents’ bodies that night? She rubbed her eyes, pulled her hair, tried everything to get the image out, out, out.

The guards looked at each other. “Maybe Captain Lister will know what to do,” Booth muttered.

“No, no. Don’t wake her,” Ann pleaded.

A streak of lightning reached out across the sky. The guards’ eyes reflected the flash, yet they could not see it.

“Are you alright, Ann?” Priestly looked at her with concern.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Ann said.

Her aunt said, “Well! If you feel unsafe at night, that’s even more of a reason for a change in leadership.”

“I don’t feel unsafe,” Ann said, glaring. “I just get nightmares, alright? I’m not demoting Captain Lister. None of this is her fault.”

“Ann—”

“I’m done talking about this,” Ann said, her voice shaking. She eyed her cousin with as queenly a look as she could muster. “What’s next?”

“Well, um, seeing as an appropriate amount of time has passed since your parents’ deaths, we’ve announced the tourney celebrating your ascension in two weeks’ time,” Priestly said. “We’ve sent invitations to the qualifying knights and their lords in the kingdom, and have begun construction on the arena.”

“And it would be appropriate for you to name a champion, my dear,” her aunt said. “Now, you don’t have to marry him or court him or any of that nonsense, so don’t send Captain Lister to intimidate and threaten him. Or any of your other guards, for that matter.”

“We have a list of potential choices,” her cousin interjected helpfully. He passed a note across the desk.

Ann ran her eyes over the paper without reading it. The king—queen, in her case—chose a champion for a tourney to add excitement to the contest. Her choice would be the knight she considered to be the best in the kingdom, unless the results of the tourney chose otherwise. The champion would wear her colors, draw out the most competitive spirits, and command the largest audience. Ann thought it all silly and meaningless.

“Do I have to choose?” she said, grimacing at the list. She tried to read the list of names without getting bored. She recognized most of them—likely from interactions at court—but was unfamiliar with their skill. She stopped halfway through. “Can’t you just write them all on slips of paper and I just? Pick one at random?”

“You should give this a little more weight, dear. This tourney is in your honor,” Aunt Ann scolded.

“You don’t need to make the decision now. Take a few days and think about it,” Priestly suggested.

Ann pursed her lips. She dismissed them, and remained at her father’s desk, her head in her hands.

***

Outside the library, Ann clutched the book about brains to her chest, wondering if the gesture was too much. She wrapped it simply in brown paper and attached a letter that read, ‘Captain Lister—A gift, to thank you for all your kindness and service.’ She should probably have asked a servant to deliver it, and considered going back to the study to save herself from embarrassment.

Overthinking again, she thought. Be brave. Just do it.

Ann found the captain in the same alcove as last time, reading. Captain Lister wore a solid black coat, her captain’s badge a glimmering gold at her collar, and her sword leaned against the wall beside her. A pile of books lay next to her on the bench. The one in her hands was opened to the first few pages; she had just started reading it. Ann hesitated to disturb her.

Ann stood at the end of the aisle, caught in indecision until the captain noticed her with a quiet, sharp gasp. Ann gave her what she hoped was an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, Captain Lister. You looked so serene, I wondered if I shouldn’t bother you,” she said.

“Your majesty,” Captain Lister stood and bowed. “You didn’t have to come all this way. I would have come at your call.”

Ann flushed. “I needed to clear my head. Besides, I quite enjoy walking,” she said.

“What can I do for you, your majesty?” the captain said, folding her hands behind her back.

No going back now, Ann thought. She took a breath before speaking.

“I won’t take up much of your time, captain. This was, um, found, and I thought of you,” Ann said, holding out the book.

Captain Lister took it, her eyebrow raised. Ann’s heart raced while the captain peeled back the wrapping. The book was bound in smooth green leather and its title embossed with silver lettering. She turned it in her hands, leafed through the first few pages, and looked at Ann with wide eyes.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was in my father’s, um, things,” Ann lied. “He was odd. Liked all sorts of subjects, like you. It was nothing.”

“Yes, I knew your father quite well. I never heard him mention anatomy, though. I suppose he didn’t want to be thought of as an oddity. It’s easy to forget most aren’t used to it, after being one all your life,” she said. Shock still coloring her voice, she added, “This is a wonderful gift. Thank you, your majesty.”

“Oh,” Ann scoffed. “We know each other well enough, don’t you think? Call me Ann. Please.”

“Thank you, Ann,” she corrected, a smile playing on her lips. “I’m going to start reading right away. I’ll return it when I’m finished.”

“No, no. It’s yours,” Ann said, waving her hand. She turned to leave, then spun on her heel. “And, um, one more thing. Will you be competing in the tourney?”

Anne chuckled. She set the book down on the top of her pile on the bench. “As competitive as I am, I’ll let my men decide if they’d like to first. Wouldn’t want to leave you unprotected,” she said, winking.

“Are you very competitive?”

“There is as much honor in a gracious loss as is in any victory. Competition lets you practice both.”

Ann raised an eyebrow. “I don’t imagine you like to lose.”

“Nobody does. Ten, fifteen years ago, I competed in every tourney I could. I lost often. I won quite a lot, too,” she said, grinning.

Ann caught the ghost of the cocky twenty-something in the captain’s expression. Perhaps she should have attended more tournaments with her parents, instead of skipping them to paint or sit in the garden. The idea of tourneys bored her; watching arrogant men ride around with horses, lances, and swords while sneaking playful glances at her sounded dull at best. Knowing the captain competed, however, made Ann worry her younger self had made a terrible mistake.

“Would you be my champion?” Ann blurted. The captain’s eyes widened. Panicked, Ann continued, “Er—for the tourney? I’m—I’m supposed to choose someone, according to my aunt. I’ve never done this before, I don’t really, um, go to any. Tournaments, I mean. Even when I was younger, I never really cared for them.”

Anne looked as though she might laugh, but bit it back. “I would be honored to represent you, Ann,” she said.

Ann smiled shyly. “Did I do that right?” she whispered. “I’m not very good at this sometimes. Especially when I’m nervous.”

“Asking a knight to be your champion is typically a more ceremonious gesture,” the captain teased. “It’s a moment filled with symbolism and romance. As stories about people like us so often are.”

Ann bit her lip. “I didn’t know,” she admitted.

“That’s how I’ve always pictured it, anyway. This is the first time I’ve been asked by a queen to be her champion. And at a tourney celebrating her ascension to the throne, no less.” Even in the dim light, Ann could swear the captain was blushing.

“Well, how could I make it more of a ceremony?”

The captain laughed, looking away. When she saw Ann was serious, her expression softened. She said, “I can show you, if you want to play along.”

Ann nodded. “I’ll follow your lead,” she said.

Anne stepped closer to her. Ann became very aware of her height, her deep brown eyes, the cut of her jaw, and a wisp of brown hair tucked behind her ear, curling at her throat. If Ann leaned forward just a little, she could rest her head on the captain’s chest, the stiff fabric on her cheek inseparable from the rough, rugged demeanor of its wearer.

A smile touched Anne’s lips. She fell to one knee, looking up at Ann with reverence. Catching stray light, the captain’s eyes turned from dark brown to bright amber. It was deferential and intimate. It could have been done in front of a crowd, yet Ann was grateful for the privacy and low light of the library, if only to mask the blush spreading across her cheeks.

“I see what you mean about this being romantic,” Ann whispered. Her heart stirred in her chest.

Anne’s smile widened. She offered Ann her sword.

Ann never had the opportunity to look at it so closely. The hilt was simple and long, large enough to be held with two hands. The scabbard, however, was ornate, decorated with carvings of bears, wolves, and elk, and inlaid with silver. It was as much ornament as weapon.

With two hands, Ann grasped the hilt, slowly pulling the blade from its scabbard. The gentle scraping of metal on metal was the only sound in the library. Once the sword was free, Ann needed both hands to lift it. Her arms trembled with the effort.

Anne bowed her head, her hair tumbling over one shoulder. Ann’s breath caught at the vulnerability of it. Delicate, baby hair curled at the back of the captain’s exposed neck. Her coat fit perhaps a bit too snugly around her wide shoulders. Ann rested the end of the blade on her left shoulder, marveling at how thick the steel was, even near the tip.

Ann didn’t know what to say. She decided simplicity was best, and said, “Ser Anne Lister, Captain of the Kingsguard, I recognize you as my champion. You will wear my colors and compete in my honor. Bear this sword and my sigil during the contest with the same pride you serve the crown each day.”

“I will, your majesty.”

“Then you may rise,” Ann said.

The captain stood. They shared a smile. She covered Ann’s hand with her own, long fingers wrapped around the hilt. Indicative of her station, Anne’s hand was warm and calloused, and a long, thick scar on her palm tickled the back of Ann’s hand. Together, they guided the sword back to its sheath. Ann’s arms still shook, but not because of the weight of the blade.

Their bodies drew closer. Ann stumbled forward with the sword. They nearly collided; Ann’s heart raced when the captain caught her with her free hand, her arm around Ann’s waist. She felt the captain’s warm breath on her cheek and their shoulders brush.

The sword returned to its scabbard, Anne said softly in her ear, “You’re better at this than you think.”

She pulled away to lean the weapon back against the bench, and Ann let out the breath she was holding.

“I look forward to watching you compete,” Ann said. “Take all the time for practicing and training you need. If you need any new armor or weapons, let—let the quartermaster know. As usual,” she added under her breath, wincing.

She knows how to get new armor, idiot, Ann scolded herself.

Anne’s smile reached her eyes. She said, “I look forward to the challenge. What’s my prize, when I win?”

“I wondered where all that boldness you had when we first met went,” Ann said, giggling. “Your prize is a substantial amount of gold, a bouquet of flowers, and a kiss on the cheek from yours truly—if you want it.”

“Hmm. Gold is nice, and I do love flowers,” she leaned closer, laughing with Ann. “But to be honest, the affection of the queen is worth more than either.”

Ann’s blush reached her ears. “Spoken like a true knight,” she said.

Ann knew the captain was joking, yet she felt an ache in her chest. She loved the playful way they talked, the glances and faces they exchanged across rooms, and long conversations about Anne’s strange interests. Their friendship was different.

Ann couldn’t pinpoint exactly why until Anne took her hand, kissed it, and said, “Thank you, your m—Ann. For everything.”

None of Ann’s other friendships affected her body so deeply. Everything Anne said burned her cheeks, melted her heart, or fluttered in her gut. Her touch, however light, lingered on Ann’s skin like static. Sunlight, cut into little slices by the window, bathed Anne’s face and neck in warm yellow. For a terrible moment, Ann wanted to reach out, cup her cheek, and kiss her.

I’m a fool, Ann thought. Fear clawed at her stomach. Was she in love with Anne, both a woman and a knight? Someone not only sworn to her, but who, under oath, could never marry or hold a title?

“Ann?” The captain sounded far away, like she was underwater. She called, “Are you alright?”

Ann blinked. She was shaking. “Y-yes. I’m just tired. I need to lay down,” she stammered.

“Should I escort you back?” Anne asked. Her eyebrows knit together. She looked so worried. Ann wanted to kiss the wrinkle between her eyebrows away.

“No, no. I can make it,” she said, waving Anne away.

The walk back to her room was a fever dream. Her body buzzed, like someone scooped out her bones and guts and replaced them with bees. Voices were a mumbling mess. She leaned on a wall for support, and then it winked away, and she lay on her bed in the darkness, staring up at an arched ceiling.

“You can’t feel that way about her,” she whispered aloud to herself. “She’s under your command. She might feel like she can’t say no. And she’s a knight of the kingsguard! She swore an oath. She wouldn’t have you, anyway. And your family—your family would never understand…”

Ann muttered to herself for hours, going back and forth on her feelings. When her eyes fluttered shut, the image of her mother was gone, replaced by Captain Lister staring up at her with bright brown eyes, reverent, regal, offering her sword.

Chapter Text

One week before the tourney, General Christopher Rawson sat across from Ann, his cup of mead collecting a ring of moisture on the surface of her father’s mahogany desk. The pit of her stomach bubbled with irritation, anxiety, and regret. She should have asked Anne to be here.

A different kind of predator than Duke Ainsworth, the general was an expert at feigning in one direction while striking in another. His refusal to hold his glass of mead was only one example. Ann might even blame him for orchestrating Anne’s absence in the room, if not for the turmoil in her own heart.

Ann had avoided being alone with the captain since their meeting in the library a week prior. She didn’t want to overstep by expressing her feelings to Anne, yet she couldn’t completely stifle them. A step back was the best option. In the room with General Rawson, however, the captain’s absence stirred her gut and dissolved her confidence.

She took a shaking breath before speaking.

“General, I don’t want our relationship to be fraught with resentment. I understand the issue is important to you—it is to me, too. But I’m not the kind of queen that gives orders without—without thinking about how they affect others,” Ann said. “How can we resolve this?”

“Your father and I had a favorite way to settle disagreements, your majesty,” he said. “We found it both fair and exciting.”

Ann worried the sleeve of her dress under the desk. “What do you propose?”

He leaned back, stretching his arm over the second chair. He said, “At the tourney next week, in the main event, your champion will duel mine. Whoever wins gets what they want.”

“And what do you want?”

“To be the general that expands his empire during an era of conquest. Er—your empire, of course, your majesty. Beginning with the plans your father prepared before his death.”

“You want your legacy,” Ann muttered, failing to keep bitterness out of her voice.

“Precisely.”

“Well, general, I—”

Ann cut off as her cousin burst through the study door, shuffling papers in his arms. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. He narrowed his eyes at Ann. “I’m afraid I was told the wrong time for this appointment. Please forgive my intrusion, General Rawson.”

The general waved his hand. “We were just finishing, anyway,” he said.

Ann sighed. “Yes. We were discussing the tourney. My champion and General Rawson’s—"

Her cousin’s eyes widened. “You’ve chosen a champion? Who?”

Ann shot him a pointed look. She neglected to tell her family that she chose Anne as her champion, and planned not to tell them until the last possible moment, in the event they organized a campaign against the decision. She wouldn’t put it past them.

General Rawson chuckled. “You don’t consult your advisor on these things? Oh, my. But I suppose that kind of thing runs in the family.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her cousin, a smile curling his lips. “Might be best to ask your advisor, rather than me. Do we have an agreement, your majesty?”

He held out his hand. She shook it, conscious of her gentle grip.

“Well,” he said, groaning as he stood, “I’ll see myself out. I look forward to our discussion following the tournament.”

He’s as arrogant as Anne is, she thought.

When the door clicked shut behind the general, Ann’s cousin turned to her, face pale.

“What kind of a deal did you make?” he asked.

Ann informed him flatly, “That when my champion fights his man, I will win, and he’ll accept my decision with no bad blood between us. If my champion loses, I’ll reconsider my perspective on the matter of my father’s conquest.”

“I hope you’ve chosen a skilled champion,” he said, troubled.

“Why do you say that?”

“He’ll cheat. And he’ll do it in a way you won’t be able to prove it. Now, you know I don’t agree with your opinion on the matter,” he said, as if she needed reminding, “but I do wish you’d involved me in this.”

“I’m surprised you’re so worried,” Ann said, voice rising. “I’d have thought you’d want my champion to lose, considering you’d be in favor of the result.”

“I would, if it were just a game. But you’ve put your champion’s life in danger, your majesty,” he said seriously. “He’ll use it as a warning, so you don’t cross him again.”

“He can’t kill a contestant,” Ann said. Her hands began to tremble. “Can he?”

Her cousin grimaced. “Accidents happen all the time: cut saddles, weighted or sharpened lances, tampered-with armor. People have died. It’s a known risk.”

Ann buried her face in her hands. What had she done? Putting Anne in danger was yet another mistake that proved she wasn’t fit for her father’s throne. If only she was murdered instead of her parents. If only she drowned instead of her brother. Instead, the kingdom would crumble to dust in her fingers, a result of her own stupidity and weakness.

Tears dripped from her chin and nose. She sniffed. “What can I do? Rescind my champion?”

“Er—no. Whoever you’ve chosen would be dishonored and feel slighted, even if they knew the breadth of the situation. These contests are as much a political game as a physical one, your majesty. I’m sure your champion accepted knowing there was some degree of risk of this sort of thing happening.”

“But what can I do?” she repeated.

“Not much, to be honest. Prepare your champion. Take precautions. Hope that I’m wrong.”

“I’m a failure, aren’t I?” Ann whispered.

Priestly bit his cheek and looked to the side, uncomfortable. “I-I wouldn’t say that, Ann. You’re doing your best. Considering. You were never trained for this, not like your brother was, at least. We—your family—we know that. That’s why we’re trying to help you.”

“My best is still failing,” she said grimly. She tore at a loose bit of lace at the end of her sleeve. “Anyone would make a better king or queen than I. Perhaps I should abdicate. It would save the family and the kingdom no small amount of shame.” The torn lace left behind stray threads at the cuff.

Her cousin patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t be too hard on yourself Ann. It’s…not an easy thing to do,” he said. They sat in silence for a few minutes. He added, “Is there, um, anything else? Or do you want to be left alone?”

Ann brushed the tears from her eyes. “Um, yes. Sorry. What did General Rawson mean when he said, ‘it runs in the family?’”

“Oh. Well. Your father always had…interesting choices for champions,” Priestly said, wincing as he chose the words.

“What kinds of choices?” Anne pressed.

“He saw the position more symbolically than most. His choices were often old friends from his time in the military, whose careers as knights were near their end. They were not often skilled. Well, I’m sure they were in their youth, but during the tournaments their performances were…rather rusted.”

“And you advised him against them.”

“Always. And he continuously made agreements and bets with General Rawson on top of it! None as severe as this, of course, his champions never died. He didn’t often challenge the general, you understand. But it was still annoying.”

Ann bit her lip. She said, “Hmm. And I imagine he thinks my choice will be similarly unwise.”

“Who is your champion, Ann?” Priestly begged. “Is he at least on the list I gave you?”

“No,” Ann said. “But the choice has been made, so it doesn’t matter, does it? Their fate may as well be sealed.”

Perhaps because of her state, her cousin relented. He said, “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

He left as quickly as he could while maintaining an air of politeness. Ann left as well, loathe to be alone in the study with only her thoughts. James followed behind her while she wandered the hallways of the castle with no destination in mind.

Ann’s mind reeled. She fought against the images filling her brain by concentrating on the pattern of the textured rugs beneath her slippers. Interlocking gold rings forming a chain. Anne in her full suit of kingsguard armor, riding an onyx stallion, a lance tucked under her right arm. A painting on the wall beside Ann, a portrait of her father in his youth, before growing his salt-and-pepper beard. Anne surging forward toward a faceless enemy. Her father’s chin and lips familiar shapes, like looking into a mosaic mirror. The tip of a lance slipping through a gap in the captain’s armor, snapping and splintering in her throat.

A large hand touched her shoulder.

“Father?” Ann sputtered as she surfaced.

It was James. Concerned. Caring. His hand recoiled immediately.

“Are you alright, your majesty?”

“General Rawson was—I-I need to speak to Anne—Captain Lister,” she said. Her hands trembled at her waist. She shook her head. Out, out, out.

***

Ann found Captain Lister at the training grounds outside the castle, preparing for the tourney. The entirety of the kingsguard was there cheering and heckling those in the arena. Ann couldn’t see them, but heard the clash of metal on metal over the chattering guards.

When Ann stepped into view, one of the knights threw their arm in the air and stirred the crowd, celebrating a victory. She removed her helmet and laughed.

To her opponent, Anne called, “Washington, it’s too easy!”

Anne grinned, face flushed, breathing hard, beads of sweat collecting on her forehead. For training, she traded her polished kingsguard armor for practice armor, scratched and scuffed from years of bouts, and her usual sword for a dulled one. She crossed the arena, giving Ann a short wave.

The captain leaned on the fence at the perimeter. She ran her fingers through her dark brown hair, smiling at Ann. She said, “How unlucky. You’ve just missed our last bout, your majesty.”

Her formality irked Ann, until Washington stood beside her and she remembered they weren’t alone. “Lucky, you mean,” he said, frowning. To Ann, he added, “She cheats, your majesty.”

“Pointing out a scuff on your armor is not cheating.”

“It is, if it’s the middle of a fight and you say so to distract me!” he exclaimed.

Anne rolled her eyes. “It’s not my fault such a silly thing distracts you. What if someone attacks the queen and says, ‘Ser, is that a stain on your cape?’ If anything, it’s a blessing we’ve discovered this weakness about you.”

“You just care too much about winning.”

“That’s true. This tourney has quite the prize, and I intend to win it,” she said, winking at Ann.

Ann blushed. “That’s a shame, I’d hoped to see you in action,” she said.

“That can be arranged,” Anne said. She bowed, and added playfully, “Anything her majesty commands.”

Ann giggled. Relief washed through her, easing some of the anxiety balled up in her gut. Through a fit of laughter, she put her hands on her hips and said, “Then I command it.”

“Booth,” Anne called, waving him over. “How about a friendly wager? Loser buys the unit a round tonight. You name the contest.”

“I’ll take that,” he said. “I know you like a challenge, Cap. Let’s wrestle.”

The two of them shed their armor. Ann watched with fascination. She never realized how small the captain was without it, but standing next to John Booth, their difference in size was staggering. It was clear why Booth chose to wrestle, and why Anne let him choose; he had the appearance of an overwhelming advantage.

“Would you like a seat, your majesty?” a guard said from behind her, offering her a wooden chair.

“Oh. Yes, thank you,” Ann said. She sat, and the crowd parted to give her a perfect view.

Under her armor, the captain wore trousers and a short-sleeved tunic, thin from years of wear and made from rough spun fabric. Small holes dotted the neckline where the collar pulled away from the rest of the shirt. The trousers were sloppily patched, as though someone inexperienced with sewing had taken it upon themselves to fix the garment. Strands of loose hair clung to Anne’s forehead and neck, and her face and chest were still flushed from her duel with Washington.

“Captain,” Ann called. The captain turned. “Take a rest, if you’re tired.”

Anne shook her head. “The skill a tournament tests most is endurance. Especially for the queen’s champion. I will fight all day, while many of my opponents will be fresh. This is the best kind of practice I can get, your majesty.”

Anne stepped into the center of the arena with Booth, stretching her arms above her head. The captain’s body was lean and muscular. Sunlight caught a sheen of sweat on her neck and arms, bathing fragments of her body in white light. The captain teased her subordinate with an insult, and they rushed toward each other, then tested who would initiate the first move.

Ann had a difficult time following the fight; she was distracted by the captain’s fluid movements, how her muscles tensed and relaxed, and the way she stirred the crowd with only her hands and a crooked smile.

Strands of Anne’s earthy brown hair gradually slipped free, only to be patted down or tucked behind her ear. At some point, Anne pinned Booth down. Her shirt skirted up, revealing the muscles on her back, taut and tensed. Ann crossed her legs. Booth soon broke Anne’s grip with seconds to spare, and the bout continued.

“You’re not impressing the queen like that, captain!” someone teased.

Anne waved them off, still grinning. She breathed heavily, though, and winced when Booth tousled her to the dirt. Each struggled to gain advantage over the other. Ann watched the captain’s legs as she strained to get Booth in a choke hold. Her stomach lurched with jealousy as Anne’s thighs flexed around his neck.

Booth rolled and their positions flipped, his knee on Anne’s throat. She struggled against him, her legs kicking, arms straining to tug him off, but exhaustion took hold. Anne transitioned between fighting him and going limp, but to no avail.

Sowden smacked the ground beside them with a fist as he counted down. “Three! Two! One!”

Booth stood and threw his arms above his head, celebrating his victory. He caught Ann’s eye and jumped, as though just remembering she was there. He sank into a deep bow, failing to hold back a grin. Ann acknowledged him with a smile.

Booth offered Anne a hand. She didn’t take it, but neither did she look upset as she stood. Patting Booth on the shoulder, they exchanged words Ann couldn’t hear, then Booth fell into a soldier’s stance and gave her a deferential bow of the head, a smile still on his lips.

The captain made her way toward Ann, wiping off as much of the dirt on her clothes and skin as she could.

“Not a very impressive showing, I’m afraid,” Anne said, giving her a shy smile. “I hope you’re not already regretting your choice. Would you believe me if I told you that’s the only time I’ve lost today?”

“Oh, you were very impressive,” Ann said sincerely, biting her lip. She flushed, but the captain beamed. “You even looked, um…”

Ann figured seeing the captain shining with sweat and dusted with dirt would only help to quell her feelings. It did not have that effect. Even the bulge of Anne’s bicep filled Ann’s head with static.

“I’ll look more presentable during the tournament of course, your m—Ann,” she said, misreading Ann’s expression.

“Oh! You look—er, I have no doubt that you will be dressed appropriately for the occasion.”

Anne smirked. “I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to watch us train.”

Ann’s gut sank. “No, I’m afraid not. I need to speak to you in, um, an official capacity. It’s sensitive,” she said, looking around.

Anne’s relaxed demeanor transformed into the practiced posture she had when she was on duty. Though she was dirty, disheveled, and wore no armor, her blank, calculated expression clearly marked her state of mind. The other guards parted without teasing or touching as she and Ann crossed the arena to the small equipment shed on the other side.

“Is everything alright?” Anne said, closing the door.

“Oh, Anne, I’ve done something absolutely stupid. I’m so sorry.” She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

“What’s happened?”

“I met with General Rawson today, and I was stupid not to ask you to be there. He-he told me that he and my father used to use the tourneys to settle things. I wanted to smooth things out b-between us, so I agreed,” Ann said. She sniffed. “I f-figured it wouldn’t matter so much if you lose, not that I think you will! But my cousin said—” Ann choked off, afraid to say it aloud.

“Hmm. I see the problem. He’s going to try to kill me, of course,” Anne muttered, more to herself than to Ann. “Do you know who his champion is?”

Ann shook her head.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. I will endeavor to find out anyway, as Rawson will no doubt be investigating who your champion is. It’s not a well-kept secret among my men, I wouldn’t be surprised if he already knows,” she said, giving Ann an apologetic smile.

Ann tried to return it, but couldn’t. Another tear slipped down her cheek.

Anne sat next to her and brushed tears off her cheeks with her thumb. “Why are you crying?” she asked tenderly.

“I’m a fool,” Ann choked. “I’ve—I’ve put you in danger. They’ll kill you, and when you’re dead I-I’ll—” Ann shook her head instead of speaking.

Anne gathered her close. Ann rested her head on her chest, her cheek on the tunic, warm and damp with sweat. Her breath came out in shaking gasps. Anne rocked her gently, like a sick child, smoothing her hair. It was so sweet a gesture she began sobbing again.

Ann sat on her hands, aching to return the embrace. The captain was warm, and so gentle, despite the violence inherent in her station.

Anne took a sharp breath. “A thousand apologies, your majesty. I just remembered I probably smell terrible,” she said.

Ann laughed through the last of her tears. “Actually, you smell divine,” she said. And she meant it. The captain radiated heat, and through the heat, her scent was lightly floral, with only a hint of the sourness of sweat.

“You’re funny. Everything will be alright,” Anne said, pulling away. “I promise.”

“How do you know?”

Anne lifted her chin with a finger, making Ann meet her gaze. “Because I’m not a fool. I’ve been doing this too long to be easily tricked, cajoled, or intimidated. I’m not the captain of your guard because of my etiquette or swordsmanship, your majesty. The general is a bully who thinks himself devious, but he’s used to your father,” she spat.

“And my father knew what he was doing,” Ann said, sinking. “I’m floundering at everything.”

“Your father was a good man. But he listened to so many voices, his was often drowned out,” she said.

Ann groaned. “Oh, I feel like that describes me, too. They’re all always there, pestering, throwing around opinions and growing frustrated with me.”

Anne smirked. “Would they be frustrated with you if they always got their way?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Some mistake your kindness for feebleness, but I don’t think so.”

“But I wish I were more like you. Direct and commanding,” Ann said.

“Hmm, it’s harder than it looks,” Anne said. “I often rub people the wrong way. I put them off. As you know.”

Ann laughed once, short and loud, like a bark from the back of her throat. “They wanted me to demote you for how you talked to Ainsworth, you know. My family. Even after I told them I asked you to do it. I don’t think I’ve seen the last of him,” she said, worried.

Anne bowed her head. “Then I’m very lucky to have the queen on my side. I will always protect you from unwanted advances and wretched men. I serve you, not your family,” she reminded her.

She took the captain’s hand in her own. “Then the next time I watch you, I expect you to win,” Ann said, smiling. “The next kiss from my lips is yours. If you earn it.”

Anne laughed with her. “From now to the contest, I’ll think about nothing else.”

Chapter Text

The tourney was a week-long event, and the crown spared no expense. The arena was tested and worn quickly with dozens of smaller contests. Merchants and artisans poured in from all over the kingdom, selling everything from baubles and trinkets to swords and armor of superior craftsmanship. Nobility from each corner of the country arrived on Monday to be greeted by the queen.

Anne grew anxious as the castle and city swarmed with guests. She employed the entirety of the kingsguard for the greeting; two behind the queen, two on the steps in front, one on each side, and Anne herself at her arm.

Ann looked up at her from the throne. “Hi,” she said brightly.

A rush of tenderness swept through her. Anne couldn’t help but smile. “Hello, your majesty. Are you excited?”

“For this?” she chuckled. “This is my least favorite part. It’s all a bit overdone, isn’t it? Most of us have met each other dozens of times before. If it were up to me, we’d skip the entire thing. Which, I suppose, is why it isn’t.”

“You would skip the—the entire tourney?” Anne clarified, aghast.

“Oh, yes. As I’ve said, I don’t really get all the excitement. Much less why it has to last an entire week.”

Anne laughed. “I can’t say I disagree. I’ll be relieved when all these people are gone, and we have less bodies to guard you against.”

The large, heavy doors swung open, and each person was announced to the queen as they entered. The queen sighed and muttered, “Get comfortable, captain, this will only last all day.”

It was about as dull as the queen expected. Each lord, lady, and knight presented themselves to the queen with a bow and a smile. She welcomed them, one after another, and the line in front of her grew.

Among the first guests were Ann’s sister Elizabeth, her husband Prince Sutherland, from the kingdom to the East, and Sutherland’s cousin Alexander—the knight they chose to sponsor. The queen greeted her sister with enthusiasm. She took time to ask about the children, none of whom were old enough to attend. Alexander offered her a single rose, which she accepted politely, with a tight-lipped smile. When they descended, she handed the rose to a servant, and said, “Throw it away or keep it if you want, I don’t care.”

Duke Ainsworth arrived by himself. As he approached, Anne bent down to whisper in the queen’s ear.

“Shall I unsheathe my sword to frighten him, your majesty?”

Ann slapped her arm. “Oh, you shouldn’t!” she said as she laughed.

The duke eyed Anne nervously as he ascended the final few steps. He bowed deeply to the queen. He said, “Your majesty. How good to see you again so soon, and at a tournament celebrating your rule.”

“Yes, I hope everyone enjoys themselves,” she said, looking past him.

He nodded and turned to Anne. “The queen’s champion, eh? I wish you luck on Saturday. You’ll need it, I hear the competition is fierce.”

Anne rested both hands on the pommel of her sword. The duke glanced from the sword, to Anne, to Ann, and back to the sword. Suppressing a smile, Anne replied, “A tournament has nothing to do with luck, your grace.”

Duke Ainsworth’s expression soured. He descended without bidding farewell, which didn’t seem to bother the queen. She caught Anne’s eye and whispered, “You’re so clever with him. I’d like to see how you talk to people who really offend you.”

“Hmm. It is easy to be clever with someone who is unintelligent.”

Ann giggled. “Oh, I do love having you here. You make this entire thing much more tolerable.”

“And you make it an absolute delight, your majesty,” Anne said, winking.

The queen blushed. Flirting was innocent, Anne thought. And if the queen responded well, why not? Anne figured few things made her laugh as much. And her laughter was such a sweet sound.

An hour after lunch, more guests poured in. Anne’s breath caught when she saw Duke and Duchess Lawton enter the hall and take their place in the line for the queen. Anne straightened, kept her expression blank, and puffed out her chest. The other voices in the room reduced to mumbling and murmurs as she awaited their turn.

Instead of looking at the queen, Mariana smiled at Anne, her expression hungry. Anne kept her eyes forward, but allowed a small smile to touch her lips.

At the queen’s feet, Mariana gave the proper greeting, then glanced at Anne while she said, “We miss this one at the hall. I will be delighted to hear how she’s getting along here.”

The queen looked at Anne with a grin. She said, “Very well, I think. The captain is rare, both clever and kind.”

“Really? I remember her as a bit of a troublemaker.”

“Oh. Well, not the case here, I’m afraid,” Ann said. “I have only good things to say.”

“That’s for the best, of course. Thank you, your majesty,” Mariana said, and curtsied. Before turning to leave, she winked at Anne. She added, “Good to see you, Anne. I would love to catch up later.”

Anne nodded, aware that the queen was watching them curiously. “If you wish, my lady. I’ll send a messenger when I’m available.”

“So formal.” Mariana clicked her tongue. “But I suppose it’s been almost a year since we’ve seen each other. We’ll fix that.”

Mariana and her husband descended the stairs, arm in arm. Anne glanced at the queen, who raised an eyebrow.

“Were you and the duchess close, when you served under Duke Lawton?” Ann asked. There was a strange tone in her voice. Anne couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Was it jealousy, or simple curiosity?

“Er—yes. We’ve maintained our friendship through the years,” Anne said.

“I—oh! Greetings, ser. How did the roads treat you?”

Ann looked apologetically back at her as the tide of guests swelled. They were busy until dinner, when the queen excused herself from both the hall and the table, preferring to eat in the privacy of her room. Outside her bedroom door, she turned to Anne.

“Captain, you must be nearly as exhausted as I am. I wish you would send someone else tonight, and rest,” she said.

“I’m no stranger to exhaustion, your majesty. My competition isn’t until Saturday, and some of my men are participating in the smaller events tomorrow. I’ll be fine,” Anne assured her.

“So many excuses. I think all the people in the city just make you nervous,” Ann said, leaning on the doorframe.

The queen looked small and exhausted, wilting in her dress, delicate circles under her eyes. Anne rested one arm on the doorframe, leaning in. Her other hand touched Ann’s cheek. Ann closed her eyes, letting Anne trace the shadow of her eye with a finger, and tuck a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. Ann’s lips parted from the sensation, her expression serene.

Anne pulled away. She murmured, “Good night, your majesty.”

Ann sighed, her eyes still closed. “Good night, Anne.”

***

Mariana deigned to visit Anne on Thursday evening. She dressed lovely enough and kissed sweetly enough that Anne forgot to be upset with her for having taken so long to visit.

“Ugh,” Marina groaned as they adjusted themselves on Anne’s cot. “I’d forgotten how small this bed is. You’re a captain now, you know, you can upgrade. I’m sure most of your men have nicer beds than this.”

“Usually my day is too busy to remember to order one,” Anne said. “But for you, I’ll make a note.”

“Good,” she said.

Anne ran her fingers through Mariana’s hair, tugging gently. Anne placed light kisses on her cheeks and nose, down her neck, over her collarbones. The months that separated them melted away at her touch. She slipped her hand up her nightgown, on the soft inside of her thigh, and smirked when Mariana gasped beneath her fingers.

“Don’t look so cocky,” Mariana scolded through shaking breaths.

“It’s hard not to be pleased with oneself when it’s just—” Anne continued pressing and rubbing her. Mariana gripped her shoulders, muffling a moan in Anne’s neck “—so easy.”

Mariana kissed her. Her mouth was familiar, wet, eager. Their kiss turned from bruising to languid, Mariana’s body seizing in a gasp, then relaxing in a sigh, melting into the tousled sheets. Anne rolled on her back and grinned.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Hmm. That’s part of my charm.”

Mariana ran her fingertips over Anne’s chest. She said, “So how have you been, really?”

“I wasn’t lying, earlier. Fine,” Anne said. She folded her arms behind her head, facing the ceiling. “You sound like you want to know something specific.”

Propped on her elbow to look at Anne’s face, Mariana said, “The queen sure seems to have a fondness for you.”

“I am her champion,” Anne reminded her. “She has a lot resting on my winning. You know nobility, they’re fond of silly wagers, hidden agendas, and everything in between.”

“Yes, that’s why you fit in so well,” Mariana teased. “I’ve been wondering how you managed that, anyway.”

Anne’s grin returned. “Oh, how anyone might expect. I’ve just proven my talents to her,” she said. “Bragged about my extensive knowledge of religious poetry. Intimidated a bothersome caller. The usual things.”

Ever observant, Mariana’s eyebrows rose. She said, “I don’t like the look in your eyes when you say that. Is there something going on with her?”

“No, no,” Anne replied, shaking her head and waving her hand. “It would be inappropriate, of course. We say things, and I do think she has some amount of affection for me, but…”

“But?” she pressed.

Anne shrugged. “She’s lonely, that’s all. And so sweet, Mary, it’s—well, it’s hard not to wish things could be different. Sometimes it feels like she wishes the same.”

“What do you mean?”

Anne frowned, irritated. “I don’t know, that things could be different. What do you want me to say?” she snapped.

“I want you to say what you mean. You aren’t making sense. What ‘things?’”

Anne scrambled for an explanation. She said, “Everything that stands between us being able to figure out whatever is…happening. I can’t speak blatantly with her. Everything must be subtext, body language, guesswork. She’s the queen. If I’m wrong, if I’ve misread it…”

She shook her head, ridding herself of the worst-case-scenarios, the least of which was her face, reflected in the blade of a guillotine.

Mariana laughed without humor. “What do you think is going to happen? You can’t marry her. Not only is she the queen, you’re in the kingsguard! You couldn’t marry anyone even if you wanted to. What, now she’s—she is the exception to your stupid oath?”

“I took the oath because of you! I said, ‘tell me not to do it, and I won’t,’” Anne shouted, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, because I get to be the person that asks you not to follow your dream? How lucky,” she spat. “You would have spent your whole life regretting it, and resenting me.”

“You say you know me, Mariana, then surely you know that I gave it a lot of thought before I asked you, and that I was sure, and that I would have sacrificed everything, everything in the world for you?” Anne said. She wept, her hands curling into fists. “You don’t get to decide that. You shouldn’t have made your decision on something that isn’t based on any kind of reality.”

“What you wanted wasn’t based on reality. I can’t just leave my husband and all of society behind. And your queen won’t, either.”

Anne lay in silence.

Mariana scoffed. “What kind of knight are you, anyway? Laying with someone’s wife. Wanting to court the queen, of all people. Why do oaths even matter to you?”

“You’re upset, so you’re being unkind,” Anne said, a tear rolling down her cheek. “You made your choice. And I made mine. No sense running circles over it.”

Mariana continued as though Anne hadn’t spoken, “She’ll get married, you know. A queen has to have heirs.”

Anne grit her teeth. Each word out of Mariana’s mouth hallowed her out. She pleaded, “Stop, Mariana. This is unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant? This is reality. How can you be so logical and calculated in everything else, but so imaginative when it comes to women? It’s like you don’t see how the world works, and you do everything you can to bend it to what you want,” she said, fuming.

“You’re reading too much into this,” Anne whispered. “We each made a choice. It was a line in the sand. A divergent path. We can’t go back.”

Mariana’s bottom lip trembled. “How was I just supposed to abandon my life?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have always loved you,” Mariana said. She rested her head on Anne’s shoulder and squeezed Anne’s hand with her own. “But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Anne pulled her hand away and rolled out of the bed. Without saying a word, she began pulling on her plainclothes, tying her boots, buttoning her coat. Mariana watched with wide eyes, the quilt pulled up over her bare shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Mariana whispered. Her voice cracked.

“Somewhere else.”

***

Anne stormed across the castle grounds, fuming. The moon, low and full, lit her path in crisp, white light. She walked with no destination, her legs moving fast but not swiftly enough. She took her usual route and finished twice as quick, and tore off in a random direction instead of bursting through the castle doors.

She walked along a narrow archway that looked on into the river below. It was a stream from this distance, nothing greater than a glimmer on the horizon. At the end of the archway, a lone figure cast a long shadow, and she started. Anne fumbled for her sword, but cursed, realizing she’d left it in her room.

“Who’s there?” she called.

“Anne?” The queen’s voice echoed on the stone.

Anne sighed, then bristled. “Where is James, your majesty? He should be with you.”

She approached, and caught Ann’s grimace. “I needed privacy,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about Saturday. I asked him to give me space. Please don’t be upset with him.”

Anne leaned on the railing. “I won’t,” she said. Then met the queen’s eyes. “I understand. I need space, too. Do you mind if I stay here?”

“Of course not. You’re nervous about the tourney, too,” Ann said. It was more statement than question.

Anne blinked away the heaviness from her eyes. “What? Oh. No.”

Unloading the nuances of her complicated relationship with Mariana to the queen was a terrible idea in more ways than one. Yet their conversation reverberated in her mind like a headache.

“Why are you awake at this hour, if you’re not nervous about the contest?”

Anne let out a breath. She said, “Oh. I was reading. A good book, but a bad ending.”

“How so?”

She groaned. “Hmm. Is it too romantic to believe that love should conquer everything? That no matter the conflict or the cost, if you loved someone enough and they loved you as much, everything would turn out? And if they really loved you, they would—would trust in that instinct?”

Ann bit her lip, thinking. “Which story is it? Maybe I’ve read it, and I might be able to give a better answer.”

“Oh, it’s old. I’m sure you don’t know it. It’s...a tragedy. The tragedy is that love, or loving someone, doesn’t lead to a happy ending. They lose or die or fall apart because they loved each other. Because of fate. Because the world is cruel. Isn’t that reality, and it’s foolish to believe otherwise?”

“Well...then they loved each other despite everything else. Despite fate or society or their role in the world. And that’s love conquering everything, isn’t it? At least, to me,” she added with a small smile. “So no, I would say love conquering all isn’t just romantic. It’s reality.”

Anne met her eyes. She said, “Well. Maybe it wasn’t so bad an ending, then.”

Ann took her hand in both of hers. Her touch was warm and gentle. She smiled shyly and said, “Isn’t there a saying, anyway, even if it was bad? Something about endings and...beginnings?”

“I suppose I have to visit the library, then,” Anne said, blushing.

Chapter Text

Ann was familiar with the myriad of reasons people found knights romantic: their physical prowess decided the fate of kingdoms; they navigated the complex world of courtly intrigue with ease; their chivalry was legendary, from their kindness and charity toward common folk to their deference for Ann herself. She grew up with this information. She knew knights at a personal level all her life, heard stories of their exploits as dragon slayers, and read poems both by and about them that made her weep as a youth.

Her respect for them spanned the width of her kingdom, but she never gushed about them as so many others seemed to. She rarely got swept up in idealistic passion. Proof of that could be found in the absence of knights among the drawings of her sketchbook, outside of technical sketches of their armor and weapons. She never drew them as people or characters. It simply never crossed her mind.

Yet, in her seat at the tourney on Saturday, Ann awaited the introduction of her champion with excitement. The cold autumn wind twisted and snapped the banners around the box seating her family and honored guests. Only Elizabeth looked as enthusiastic as Ann, leaning forward in her seat, watching the squires arrange lances for the contestants.

At dinner the week before, Ann revealed Anne as her champion to her family. They had reacted with the disdain she expected, but otherwise did nothing to sabotage her choice.

Her aunt pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “I do wish this obsession with the captain would end.”

Catherine sputtered, “But she can be so rude, Ann! Aren’t you afraid she will misrepresent you?”

Priestly reacted most positively, saying, “Well, at least she chose someone skilled.”

Grateful that the captain didn’t seem bothered by their contempt, Ann rolled her eyes at the memory.

Ann clapped politely as each knight introduced themselves to her. They dressed in elaborate armor, sporting the crests and colors of the houses they represented. Even their horses were embellished in fine, sweeping fabrics. Each man and woman bowed deeply atop their horse, the boldest of them handing her flowers.

As the number of knights left to be introduced dwindled, Ann’s heart began to race. She peered around the box to catch as early a glimpse at her champion as she could. The cold already reddened her cheeks, but the sight of Anne turning the corner filled her with warmth.

Ann watched, riveted, as Anne approached her on a black stallion, helmet under her arm, and a smirk on her lips. She wore a new suit of onyx-black armor, a crow on a branch—Ann’s family crest—engraved in gold on her cuirass and shield, and a gold cape spilled from her shoulders to the ground below, billowing as it caught the wind.

The knight before her was ethereal, otherworldly, a goddess. A thousand paintings couldn’t capture the reality of her. Any drawing would fail to illustrate the fluidity of her movements. Any poem, no matter the length, would fall short when describing her gaze, and the seeds of tenderness that burst in Ann’s gut when their eyes met. Ann could dedicate the rest of her life to creating an image, in any medium, of this moment and never succeed in translating it.

Her champion held out a red rose, and Ann stood to accept it. A small note was rolled up and tied to the stem with a ribbon.

“I don’t doubt you’ve received many flowers today, your majesty. I hope I can make a more lasting impression,” Anne said.

“Oh, you already have,” Ann gushed.

Anne bowed. She grinned and pointed to her right cheek. “I’ll keep this one clean for you.”

“To have your confidence!” Ann teased, rolling her eyes. “At least make them look like fair matches, captain.”

“As you command, your majesty.”

Anne joined the rest of the contestants at the other end of the arena, where they would receive a schedule of the rounds and the names of their first opponents. Ann smiled to herself and untied the ribbon. The note was written with small, scrawled script.

I took your advice. Found this at the library this morning & thought it might bring you comfort.

—A

I suffer every day from loneliness
& my distance from you
The weight of them settled in my limbs like stone bones
What is my strength that I can bear it?

That distance not measured in space
But by the warmth of the heart
& longing that devours my insides.

If leagues should separate us too
I would rather die than leave words unsaid
& which I cannot take back

For in the dark of death, your love
Is the beacon that guides me home.

Ann read it twice, her heart pounding, thankful no one saw the blush creep up her cheeks. She had to believe this was a sign that Anne’s feelings mirrored her own. Her breath shook and her hands trembled. Rawson’s trap, yesterday’s tenderness, Anne’s storybook entrance, and now this—what was it, possible confession of affection?—was too much. There was nothing she could do for Anne but sit and wait, yet the burden of patience fell heavily on her, crushing her lungs, blurring her vision.

“What is my strength that I can bear it?” she recited under her breath, trying to draw a sense of calm from the words, that Anne thought they applied to her. Then she thought, what was her strength if she couldn’t?

“What’s that?” Catherine asked from behind her, pointing at the poem.

“Nothing,” Anne said. She tucked it away. “Just a copy of the guard rotation for the event. She forgot to give one to me this morning, what with all the—the preparation.”

Catherine frowned. “Not very romantic for a knight, is she? At least something like, ‘my queen, I am in your service forever and ever, and compete in the honor of your beauty today,’ would have been more appropriate,” she said wistfully.

At the tip of Ann’s tongue was, ‘You really think Captain Lister would say something that dull?’ What she said, however, was, “No, she’s practical, which is a good trait for someone in her position.”

“I suppose.”

The tournament began with ceremony and fanfare, trumpets blasting high, clear notes into the air. Nobility and common folk alike cheered and howled as the first contestants entered. Anne was one of them. Her squire unclipped her golden cape, and she galloped around the perimeter of the arena, drawing her sword and holding it high, stirring the crowd into a frenzy of excitement. Her opponent did the same. They bowed to each other, then went to opposite ends, trading their swords for lances.

Ann expected something of a chess match; a game of quiet calculation, where the players made miniscule, strategic movements to offset the other. Jousting, however, was loud, brutal, and fast. Instead of allowing the knights to intimidate each other in a state of quiet calm, the crowd was a tempest of noise. The pounding of their horses’ hooves on the dirt was masked by men shouting. Anne and her opponent rushed toward each other, Ann blinked, and her opponent was already unseated from his horse, rolling in the wet sand.

The crowd erupted. The judges—called heralds, Ann reminded herself—named Anne the winner without deliberation. Anne celebrated her victory by passing her lance to the squire and bowing to Ann. 

Ann shouted, “I thought I told you to make it look fair, captain?”

Even wearing the helmet, she knew Anne had a smirk on her lips.

The rest of the morning’s matches passed by much the same, though not as quick. Anne fought thrice more—twice as often as anyone else—and roused the crowd to a deafening roar each time.

During Anne’s fourth match, Elizabeth sat beside her. Elizabeth looked at Ann tenderly, and took her hand. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “But you’re doing so good here. And you’ve chosen such a wonderful champion.”

Ann rested her head on her sister’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you, too. I’m not sure the rest of the family would agree with you, they’re a bit irritated with the captain, lately.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She said, “Oh, I’ve heard, and it’s a ridiculous reason. Besides, it’s hard not to choose better champions than father. A king’s champion hasn’t gotten to the second half of a tourney in, oh, twenty years at least? Much less won the whole thing.”

They watched Anne together. Her opponent’s lance snapped on her shield, and a moment later, she unseated him. Elizabeth chuckled, and added, “Which yours might just do.”

Ann swelled with pride. “I hope so.”

***

Anne fit her helmet over her head, and took a deep breath.

The sounds of the crowd, somehow both muffled by and reverberating in her helmet, brought her back to the contests of her youth. From the center of the arena, the crowd was a swathe of colors, interrupted on one side by the royals’ box, where the queen looked on with anticipation. That look brought her back, too, though in a way that wrung her gut like a wet cloth; Anne often did well at tourneys where she tried to impress someone, first Eliza, then Mariana, now Ann.

That morning, Anne let the flood of memories take over. She was cocky, swaggering, and struck quickly. She took advantage of green opponents who expected a veteran to be precise and thoughtful. She was too forward with the queen, because Ann encouraged her to be familiar, and that arrogant, young bit of Anne herself was also unfathomably stupid.

To the delight of the shrieking crowd, Anne won each of her duels in the second half of the tourney. At the end of the previous match, she walked the perimeter to move blood through her legs and give Argus, her horse, a rest. They showered her with flowers, wreaths, and prayers. Men and children clamored to touch her. Women shyly tried to meet her gaze, and flushed when they did.

Her final opponent was Ser Robinson, Rawson’s man. Anne checked her saddle dozens of times, examined her horse, and looked for weak spots in her new armor. If Rawson cheated, it couldn’t be prevented. They regarded each other from opposite ends of the arena, tucking their lances under their arms, and calming their horses, who were nervous in the tension. Even the crowd was quieter.

At the signal, they charged toward each other. Anne aimed the lance at the center of his shield to test his strength. At the same time, she watched his, and readied her shield appropriately.

They connected, and two things happened: Anne’s lance hit the center of her opponent’s shield, but rather than unseating him, the force snapped the end of her lance, spraying splinters of painted wood in the air; simultaneously, her opponent’s lance hit the outside corner of her shield, denting the steel and slipping past her left shoulder.

That point isn’t blunted, Anne realized, turning her body to look at the damage to the shield.

If that lance hit her right, it would penetrate or slip between the gaps in her armor, possibly killing her.

Of course, Anne could end it now. Raise her hand, calling a herald to inspect the lance, and be declared the victor by default. She would spare the queen worry, possibly save her own life, and win Rawson’s bet. But what was the fun in that, when she could win anyway, sending her own message to the general?

Anne resolved to draw out the joust long enough to transition into a duel, where the fight would be more in her favor. All her focus had to be channeled into defending herself, rather than risk exposing herself by lunging, the action her opponent likely expected.

The crowd groaned together, a deafening sigh that filled the air. People shouted, but—probably thankfully—her helmet muddied their words.

Anne turned the corner for the second charge, and exchanged her broken lance for another. She was allowed three during the match. The squire, a small girl of maybe eleven or twelve, stared up at her with wide eyes as she handed it over.

They rushed toward each other again. Instead of seizing the opportunity to thrust her own lance, Anne threw her weight into the shield, catching the point just so, shattering the tip of her opponent’s weapon.

Her opponent spun in his seat to snarl at her. Anne wished there wasn’t a need for helmets; her opponent clearly emoted himself throughout the duel, while Anne would be an image of blank tranquility, whether she struck the winning blow or rolled to the ground, finally defeated.

The expression was intended to intimidate and astonish. Anne employed it in duels, interrogations, and conversations at court. It was a skill she cultivated since she was sixteen. If her helmet was ripped off during battle, her opponents’ shock would give her the moment she needed to strike. It happened only once, but it saved her life.

On the third charge, Anne faked him out. She struck half-heartedly, then blocked. His lance slid off her shield, leaving only a thin line on its surface.

The crowd groaned again.

I can’t make this plan obvious, Anne thought grimly. She rounded the barrier, releasing the anxiety in her mind and the tension in her body in a single breath.

On the fourth and final charge, she gripped Argus as tightly as she could with her knees, poised to block and strike. She imagined a smirk on her opponent’s face beneath the helmet, certain she would open herself up to be struck, the tip lodged in her, its soft wood splintered in her body so no one would be the wiser.

They surged toward each other. Anne read the telltale movements of his body. His shield out, angled, ready to deflect. The lance held up and out, but relaxed. He expected Anne to lunge first, aggressively, trying to unseat him and be through with it all, before it got to the inconvenience of a duel on the ground. Her own body language said as much.

Instead, as they got close, she waited.

When he realized Anne wasn’t going to strike, he lashed out, sloppy, awkwardly close. She parried it, struck, and hit the edge of his shield. It didn’t unseat him.

At the end of the barrier, Anne handed her lance to the squire and jumped off her horse. For the first time all day, the heralds were deep in conversation regarding the results of the match.

Anne and Ser Robinson waited as the heralds deliberated. She took this time to empty the remnants in her waterskin, the squire running the moment Anne waved her over.

The child looked up at her again, eyes wide. “Ser, you were—”

“Hush,” Anne said, taking the waterskin from her arms. The child fell silent. “When heralds are deciding the results of a match, you give them respect.”

After a few minutes, the herald at the center cleared his throat. “After four charges, the same number of broken lances, and true but unsuccessful attempts to unseat the other, a ground duel will determine the victor of this joust, and the winner of the tourney.”

They were allotted twenty minutes of rest while the squires prepared a makeshift arena. Anne spent it stretching her legs, arms, and back, working the exhaustion out of her body.

Ser Robinson approached her, his helmet removed. Anne’s suspicion was right, he indeed had an emotive face, his lips twisted in a snarl.

“You did this on purpose,” he said. “You’ve been fighting all day, ser. Aren’t you tired?”

Anne wore her signature expression. “I’m never tired,” she said.

That was a lie, of course. Her muscles ached. The beginning of a headache wrapped its tendrils around her ears and forehead, like a shrinking band. If she held her hand out in front of her, it trembled, and no amount of concentration could still it.

No matter. Endurance was the meat of this contest. Only a small distance away, the queen was watching her, her concerned expression the most endearing thing Anne had ever seen.

He followed her gaze and chuckled. “Suit yourself, ser. This may well be the last time she ever sees you alive.”

Anne glared at him, stood without speaking, and took her place in the arena.

Anne pulled the sword from its scabbard. She meditated on the ring of metal on metal, voices in the crowd, the crunch of dirt under her boots. She acknowledged the dull pain in her calves and thighs, her headache, trembling hands, and tucked them away to the back of her mind. Rest would come later.

They circled, sizing each other up. Ser Robinson was a formidable opponent, at least as large as Booth. If his skill with a sword could be judged by prowess with a lance, he could strike well, and hard. Anne had to be careful, especially in her haggard state.

He rushed her, his sword coming down. She deflected it, smacking it aside. He was testing her speed and strength, gauging her exhaustion. Anne weakly parried the next, giving him a reason to be overconfident.

“Ser, this is hardly fair. You can barely stand,” he said as they traded jabs, testing weaknesses and favored sides. “I’m going to humiliate you.”

“Then do it,” Anne challenged. “Or I’ll think you both dishonest and a coward.”

She played him well. He lunged, all his strength behind the blow. If Anne blocked it, it would knock her to the dirt, his knee on her throat, the contest lost.

Instead, she dodged. Her shoulders screamed with pain, but she stowed it away. She slammed the pommel of her sword between his shoulder blades, denting his armor and sending him stumbling. He turned, shocked at the vigor of her movements. Taking advantage of his surprise, Anne rushed him. She swung left, right, up, his blocks milliseconds late each time.

The ache in her limbs turned to singing pain. Each time she took a step, the tendons in her thighs felt like they were snapping string by string like frayed thread. Her shoulders and biceps were like stones threatening to fall through her flesh. She was so close.

Her last swing knocked the sword out of his hand. Anne kicked him in the gut, and he fell on his back, the tip of her sword under his chin.

“Dead,” she said, and returned the sword to its scabbard.

The crowd erupted in a frenzy. Anne removed her helmet, patting down the wisps of hair clinging to her face and neck. People called to her, but Anne ignored them, searching for one pair of eyes.

***

Anne looked at her, the barest of smiles on her lips.

The day took its toll on Ann’s champion. Her onyx armor no longer gleamed in the sunlight, but collected dust and dirt. Her braid was messy, loose brown and gray hair whipping around her face with the wind. When she drew her sword and knelt before Ann, her arms trembled just a little.

Ann placed her hand on the pommel of Anne’s sword. With a gentle smile, she said, “Rise, my champion, so we may revel in your victory today.”

Anne rose, meeting her eyes with a grin. The crowd burst into applause, stomping their feet and shouting. A servant handed Ann a bouquet of white roses so large it was thrice the width of her. They shared a laugh as she struggled to hold them.

Ann cleared her throat. “So, captain. How will you celebrate?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well, if you find you aren’t busy, I would like to properly congratulate you tomorrow afternoon, over tea. I’m told it’s, um, a customary gesture,” Ann said.

“I’ll see if I can find time,” Anne teased.

“I hope so,” she said. “I suppose it’s time for your prize now, isn’t it?”

Trembling, Ann handed her the flowers, stood on her toes, and cupped Anne’s face. She gently kissed her cheek. Anne was already grinning when, under the cover of the bouquet, Ann pressed a second kiss to the corner of her mouth.

Ann pulled away quickly, wondering if it was too much. She looked up at Anne to see, but found her eyes were still closed, and her face tilted. She put her hand on Anne’s cheek again, and her eyes fluttered open.

Ann laughed and tapped her own cheek with an index finger. Anne obliged and kissed her there. She barely felt it, her skin made frigid and numb by the fierce wind.

“You’re cold,” Anne said. Her warm breath tickled Ann’s throat. “We should get you inside, your majesty.”

Ann summoned all the courage she had and said, “It would be too much to share your horse, wouldn’t it?”

Anne raised her eyebrows. With a small laugh, she said, “Argus is a warhorse. You’d be light as a feather on his back.”

“Even with you?” she asked shyly.

“I think he can manage.”

Caught up in the energy of the tourney and likely mostly drunk, the crowd cheered as Ann and the captain made their way across the arena to Anne’s horse. Anne made a show of helping her up, waving as the crowd parted to let them through toward the castle.

With the captain’s arms around her, and her cheek resting on Ann’s hair, Ann’s heart sung in her chest. Her fingers played with the loose leather on the saddle, trying to fuss out some of her nervous energy. It didn’t work.

“That was a good poem you wrote on that note,” Ann said, voice shaking. “Where did you find it?”

“Hmm. If I tell you my secrets now, you might not find them so interesting in the future,” Anne said. “Even worse, you will have read them already.”

“Oh, please give me a hint! It was so lovely.”

“Alright. Your hint is that you can’t find it in a book in the royal library.”

“That’s not a fair hint!”

“Isn’t it?”

Ann pondered for a moment, biting her lips. She gasped. “You don’t even know what all the books are in the library. You wrote it,” she accused.

“I’m not revealing my secrets,” Anne said, expression blank.

“You wrote it,” Ann repeated, confident. “Tell me! Do you write often? Do you have a whole book of poetry you hoard selfishly?”

Anne grimaced. “If I did—and I’m not confirming this accusation—it definitely wouldn’t be ‘selfishly hoarding.’ Most poetry is absolutely terrible.”

Ann laughed. She fingered the tail of Anne’s braid, twisting it around her thumb. The journey to the castle was short and cold. Sitting by a warm fire sounded like the most comfortable thing in the world. Except that Anne’s arms wouldn’t be around her.

When they arrived at the castle stables, Ann whispered, “I don’t want this to be over.”

Anne brushed her hand with her own. “Would you like me to walk you to your room while we wait for Ser Washington, your majesty?”

“Oh, yes. And then you should go and celebrate,” Ann insisted. “I don’t want to take up all your time. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, I think there’s time in my schedule,” she said, winking.

Anne left Argus at the stables. On the way to Ann’s room, the captain walked behind her, deferential, professional. The tips of Ann’s ears reddened. She worried she misunderstood the signals, that she layered on Anne’s actions her own feelings, and she would look upon her actions today with chagrin.

However, in the doorway, Anne took a breath. “May I come inside?” she asked. Her cheeks were tinged pink. Probably from the cold, Ann scolded herself

Ann said, “Yes, of course.”

Ann sat on the couch, folding her hands in her lap, picking nervously at her gloves. The captain hesitated to sit, walking around the perimeter of the room, picking things up and setting them down without looking at them. At the bookshelf near the couch, her fingers traced the spines of the old war manuals and folded up maps. Ann was struck by how tired she looked, the way her armor no longer seemed to fit the arrogant, cocky, beautiful knight, but instead held together a warm, calculated, elegant veteran.

“Wait,” Ann commanded, jumping from her seat. “Stand there.”

Anne turned and laughed. “If that is your command.”

Anne watched while she gathered her sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. She sat at the edge of the couch and sketched furiously, drawing as many of the basic shapes and angles of the armor as she could. On a separate sheet, she sketched Anne’s face. She knew it well enough to draw it without her there, but wanted to capture the humor in her eyes, and the words on the edge of her tongue, just before she spoke them.

“Er—what are you doing?”

“Drawing you. I want to remember this,” she said, meaning everything. Anne’s face, her armor, how handsome she looked, the day itself.

Anne raised her eyebrows. She said, “I’m surprised. I thought you didn’t like tourneys.”

“I’ve decided I do,” Ann said. She hesitated, then added, “As long as you’re competing.”

Anne’s face was blank, unreadable. “Hmm. And what does my presence add to the experience that it lacked before?”

Ann blushed. “Someone to root for,” she said, focusing on the sketches.

“And what does it take for you to want to root for someone?”

“Know them, I suppose.”

There was a smirk on Anne’s face now. She said, “You know a number of knights, your majesty.”

Ann gripped her charcoal so hard it snapped in her hand. She let out a breath. “Yes. Well. They’re not quite as charming as you are,” she said, her eyes steeled on the paper on her lap.

“I didn’t know I was charming,” she said.

“You gave me a rose,” Ann said. “Most women find that charming.”

“Ah. So, you feel this way about Ser Alexander McKenzie, too? What if we had dueled each other, who would you have rooted for?” she teased.

“You,” Ann said. “Because I promised you that kiss.”

Anne sat next to her, leaned over, and whispered, “And it was worth it.”

Ann laughed. “You know, as a child, I actually liked knights. I think every little girl dreams about being whisked away on an adventure by a knight,” Ann said, blushing from embarrassment.

“I never did,” Anne said. She grinned. “I always wanted to be the knight.”

Ann looked up at her. She was taken by Anne’s handsome face, the fullness of her lips, her warm, brown eyes. She said, softly, “Will you whisk me away?”

Anne’s grin faltered.

A thousand anxieties surfaced in Ann’s mind. She made Anne’s poem mean more than it meant. She took Anne’s flirtations seriously when they weren’t. She placed Anne in an impossible position where she was afraid to refuse. Anne thought she didn’t care about her oaths. That Ann was stupid and worthless and ruined everything with five audacious words.

“If only I could,” she whispered, so quietly Ann almost didn’t hear it.

“You can,” Ann stammered. “I-I mean, I want you to. If—if you want to. But it isn’t—” Ann took a breath. “I’m not saying this as the queen, is what I mean. And if you’re uncomfortable, then—well, then that’ll be the end of it.”

Anne cupped her face, brushing Ann’s lips with her thumb. “If I whisk you away, where would you want to go?” she said. Her eyes trailed Ann’s face, flicking from her lips to her eyes and back again.

“Wherever you’ll take me. I just want to be with you,” Ann confessed.

They kissed. Anne’s soft, sure lips took her breath away, and the warm wet dip of her tongue turned her limbs to jelly. The thoughts swarming her mind dulled to a hum while her senses sharpened. Anne’s armor chilled her skin through the fabric of her sleeve and on her bare wrists. The heat of Anne’s breath warmed her mouth and cheeks. For the first few moments, Anne’s lips tasted salty with sweat. Soon she was dazed by the sensation of their mouths moving over each other, top lip, bottom, tongue.

Without pulling away, Anne whispered, “I think there are some…things to discuss, regarding the fact that you’re the queen, and I’m, well…” Anne’s lips brushed hers as she spoke.

“Captain Lister,” Ann began sternly, stabbing a finger on her armored chest. “Do not ruin this moment.”

Anne kissed her forehead. She said playfully, “Alright, then I want to kiss you a second time, your majesty. May I?”

“Only if you kiss me a third and fourth time, too.”

Chapter Text

Ann sat at her desk, head in her hands, staring at the blank sheet of parchment in front of her. She mumbled lines, phrases, and words to herself, but the image she pictured so clearly in her mind struggled to translate to words. Perhaps, she thought, if she began to write, it might ignite the spark she needed. She dipped the pen in ink and scribbled the basic, mundane shapes of a poem stuck in her brain.

Sweet knight, eyes of deepest brown

“Stupid,” she cursed under her breath, crumpling the paper and grabbing a clean sheet.

On a stallion like coal,
Your armor a swathe of night sky,
Black, gleaming, calm,
The same canvas where I paint my dreams.

Ann read it aloud, imagining she was Anne, receiving it in the dim light of the library, tucked in her alcove, a tower of books surrounding her. The words were clunky in Ann’s mouth. Her metaphors were vulgar. Compared to the centuries’ worth of literature and stories Anne devoured, this poem was like a child’s drawing. Ann wanted to touch the captain’s heart, not receive a pat on the head.

She crumpled it up too, adding it to the mountain of bland and cliché poems beside her. Returning Anne’s gesture was going to be harder than she thought. Ann imagined them sending poems back and forth, giggling with delight and blushing as they read them in their own private spaces.

A painting would have been more Ann’s style, but she couldn’t exactly deliver one discreetly in the pocket of a servant. If she painted anything as a gift, it would be a portrait or a landscape. Ann doubted a painting would impress the captain, whose love for words, symbolism, and metaphor meant that she craved depth from everything she touched, saw, and heard. There would be little depth in a portrait of Anne, who only needed to look in the mirror for a better likeness.

Perhaps a romantic letter would do. Ann scribbled, To my beloved. She chewed her thumb with her teeth, thinking, then scribbled it out. “You kissed her once, you can’t call her that yet, idiot,” she muttered. Then she thought, how many times would she need to kiss someone in order to call them ‘beloved?’

Ann held her head in her hands again, and wondered how her relationship with the captain felt more complicated than running a kingdom.

A knock on the door jolted Ann out of contemplation. In a panic, she tossed the failed poems into the fire, capped the inkwell, and tucked away the pen. Looking at the clock, Ann frowned. Anne wasn’t the type to arrive to an appointment twenty minutes early.

She cleared her throat. “Come in,” she called, straightening her father’s scope with a fingertip.

Prince Sutherland entered the study, his hands folded behind his back. He gave Ann a polite bow, then said, “Terribly sorry, have I interrupted your work?

“Oh, no,” Ann said, voice high. She looked down to make sure she’d hidden the poems and letter. She had. “J-just making sure everything is in order.”

He observed her bare desk. “They certainly keep you busy.”

“Um, yes,” Ann said. “What do you need?”

He said, “I know you have an appointment with Ser Lister soon, so I’ll be brief. Your sister and I will be leaving for home the day after next. Your Aunt Ann informed me you are looking for a husband.”

“Did she?” Ann muttered, holding back a groan.

“Elizabeth and I would like to extend an invitation to our home at any time. We would love to introduce you to our friends,” he said. “We could host as early as next month, in fact. Just in time for winter—our snowfalls are absolutely enchanting.”

“Um, I’m not looking to travel any time soon,” she said. “But I appreciate the offer. Thank you.”

He pursed his lips. “Hmm. Well, think about it, and write if you change your mind.”

“I will, thank you.”

Before the prince turned to leave, something behind Ann caught his eye. She spun to look, frightened one of her crumpled-up poems missed the fireplace.

He said, “Interesting painting.”

Ann sighed, relieved. “Oh. Yes, it’s mine. It’s of the river just into the forest, barely a league away,” she said.

“Elizabeth said you were good. The style is…different,” he said, scratching his chin. “Anyway. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

After Prince Sutherland left, Ann took out her letter again. Under the scribbled-out words, she wrote only a few sentences, then folded the letter, poured a dab of wax, and pressed it with her seal.

When Anne knocked on the door, she stared at it in her trembling hands. Ann envisioned the captain reading it across her in the chair, frowning, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Fear and shame welled in her gut. She stowed it in the drawer.

Blood rushed to Ann’s cheeks the moment Anne stepped in the room. She wore the coat Ann liked—black, tight, open at the collar, and paired with worn leather boots. The sword at her waist gleamed like the ornament it was, and Ann found herself wishing it was that sword the captain wielded in the arena, instead of the ordinary, dulled blade, just so she could summon the image from her memory.

“Good afternoon, your majesty,” Anne said. She bowed, and Ann scoffed.

“You don’t need to do that, Anne. Not when we’re alone,” she said, picking at the front of her dress. With a small smile, she added, “I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to keep telling you that.”

“Habits can be hard to break,” Anne apologized. “That is a beautiful dress, your m—Ann. How did they find a dye the same blue as your eyes?”

Ann giggled. “Sit, if you want. I was thinking we could celebrate with a little something more than tea.”

“That sounds divine.”

While Ann retrieved it, Anne took a seat at her desk.

“You added flowers,” Anne said, turning to smile. The scope was all that remained of her fathers’ things there. Ann added four pots of little pink flowers with thick green stems, arranged at the corner of her desk on a series of stilts, cascading down.

“Yes, the dragon teeth were starting to get under my skin,” Ann admitted, shuddering. “I was looking over all these tax things William gave me this morning and found I couldn’t concentrate with them sitting there, and I thought, ‘oh, I should just get rid of them!’ And I did, and the desk was quite bare without it, and I figured, flowers would be nice enough to look at.”

Ann blushed as she finished speaking, realizing she said far too much.

“They are perfectly you,” Anne said. “Sensible and very pretty.”

“You are too kind to me,” Ann said, blushing.

She set a bottle of mead and two crystal glasses on the desk. After she poured a glass for each of them, Anne took the bottle in her hands, looking it over. “This was your father’s favorite,” Anne observed. “Of course, you already know this.”

Ann nodded. “That is why I chose it. We only have a few bottles left. Is…this okay? Do you not like it?”

“I’ve never tried it,” Anne said. She swallowed a mouthful, raised her eyebrows, then tipped the rest back. “Hmm. Your father had good taste. Very light. Very dry.”

Ann took a sip, one drop touching her tongue. She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. You’re right,” she said, smacking her lips to get the taste out of her mouth. Pushing the glass toward Anne, she added, “You can have the rest. Ugh.”

Anne laughed, and brought the glass to her lips.

Ann watched in awe. Before the tourney, she could draw the shape of Anne’s lips with her eyes closed and mix their perfect shade of pink. Her appreciation as an artist for beauty transformed into a lover’s ache; only by closing her eyes, Ann knew perfectly well the softness of her lips, their firmness, and the myriad of sensations one kiss radiated through her body, from her own lips, to her gut, to her thighs. She shifted in her chair, crossing her legs.

Anne noticed her looking. “What?” she asked, trying to hide her smile behind the glass.

“I was just thinking. Your lips probably taste like mead now,” Ann said, making a face.

“Disappointing that you don’t like it, then. I was really hoping to kiss you again,” she mused, taking another sip.

Ann flushed. The captain saying it out loud and so casually made it real. She bit her cheek. “The flavor may be something I’m willing to overlook.”

Anne reached for the bottle, maintaining eye contact with Ann as she poured herself another glass. She teased, “Whatever suits you.”

Ann stood from her chair and walked to the window under the guise of observing the scenery outside. She smiled to herself when Anne followed. Closing her eyes, she waited for Anne to wrap her arms around her and hold her, maybe pressing gentle kisses on the back of her neck, whispering something poetic in her ear.

“Is everything alright, Ann?” the captain asked from an annoyingly respectful distance away.

Ann stepped closer, resting her hand on the hilt of Anne’s sword. Misreading her intentions—or frustrating her on purpose—Anne unsheathed the sword and offered it to her. Sunlight highlighted details on the blade that were hidden in the dim light of the library. Thin, white shapes were etched into the steel, almost like symbols from a lost, ancient language. Ann marveled at them, tracing them with her finger.

“What are they?” she asked.

Anne laughed. “When I bought the blade, the smith told me it was enchanted, and he only crafted the handle and scabbard. Something about protection, or love, or something else whimsical. He didn’t really know.”

“Enchanted, like…magic?”

Anne rolled her eyes. “I’m sure it’s a gag he used often. The enchantment—magic itself—isn’t real. Not that I’ve seen, read, or experienced. But the…person I was with thought it was pretty, so I shut my mouth and gave him the gold.”

“It’s beautiful,” Ann agreed. “But, um, not what I want to be touching.”

“That’s a shame,” Anne said, sheathing the weapon. “I was trying very hard to impress you.”

“You’re always impressive,” Ann said, flushing a deeper shade of red. She slowly leaned into Anne, who accepted her touch, and rested her hand on the back of Anne’s neck. The tufts of soft, thin hair there tickled her fingertips.

Standing on her toes, Ann trailed small kisses down the length of her jaw. Anne lifted Ann’s face with a finger, and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. Ann whined for another. Anne chuckled, kissed her again, and this time Ann melted into the wet heat of her mouth.

Anne grinned. “As awful as you expected?”

“What?” Ann said, furrowing her eyebrows. “Oh. No. The taste was easy enough to ignore.”

“Hmm. Good.”

They moved to the couch. Anne’s finger traced the shape of her hand. Ann melted at the tender touch, resting her head on Anne’s shoulder.

Ann sighed. “This is nice.”

“What is ‘this?’” Anne whispered into her hair.

“Hmm. I don’t know. What do you want it to be?”

“What can it be? Nothing can ever publicly become of—” Anne gestured widely with her hands “—anything we do. I have oaths, you have duties, we have a professional relationship,” Anne said. She rested her head on Ann’s, and took her hand again.

“Is this breaking your oaths?” Ann asked. She smoothed the rough, calloused slopes of Anne’s palm with her thumb.

Anne sucked in a breath. “Technically, no. I can’t get married, have children, or hold titles in the kingdom. But that doesn’t mean this kind of relationship is encouraged or accepted or done,” Anne said. She let out a short laugh. “Your family already dislikes me. If it was found out, there would be sufficient measure and…precedent…to have me, um, removed.”

Ann pulled away to look up at her. “Precedent? What precedent?”

Anne scratched the back of her head, looking away from Ann. “I was doing research after I left last night. It’s not pleasant.”

“Research?” Ann scoffed. She slapped Anne’s arm. “You were supposed to be celebrating!”

Anne sighed, wringing her hands. “Well, your great-great grandfather had an, um, affair with a servant. She became pregnant. When it was discovered to be his, she and the child were both killed,” Anne said.

“A servant is quite different from a knight,” Ann said.

“Yes. A knight with oaths. A knight charged to protect you, who is often left alone with you, and who is armed when you are not,” Anne said grimly.

“Anne, I would never—”

“I know. But that’s the reality of what it looks like. People assume, and they’re right more often than they’re wrong.” Anne rubbed her temples. “Mariana was right. This is both reckless and hopeless.”

Ann’s mind spun. Her lips burned with a dozen questions, overwhelmingly about the nature of Anne’s friendship with the duchess. She set them aside, took Anne’s hand between her own, turned it palm up, and placed a gentle kiss on the scar running down its center. She said, “Anne, this—whatever it is—isn’t hopeless.”

“You’ll marry,” she said. “And this will have to be over. I couldn’t stand it, being a mistress on top of it all.”

Ann wanted to assure her that she wouldn’t marry. Ever. She could pour her heart on the floor, confess she never thought she was capable of feeling the things Anne awakened in her, that even the way Anne held her hand was like breathing a lungful of warm summer air. She opened her mouth to say it, and thoughts of her family lodged the words in her throat and scrambled the feelings in her brain.

“I don’t want to marry anyone,” she sputtered. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt—I-I know my family will keep setting me up with men like Duke Ainsworth, but—I’ve never felt—you make me feel like—like—"

Ann began to cry. Everything coming out of her mouth was incomprehensible. In less than a day, she ruined every good thing she had with the captain, and would never feel the safety of her embrace or the heat of her breath on her lips again. The things she felt when Anne held and kissed her were alien to her body, how could she hope to describe it with words?

“Ann,” Anne said, taking Ann’s face in her hands. Her thumbs wiped away her tears. “Take a breath. What are you trying to say?”

“I’ve ruined it already,” Ann said. Her voice cracked. “All my thoughts just stack up, talking over each other. I don’t want to marry anyone, but I’m afraid my family will—will trick me, or convince me, or scare me into it. I want to promise that it won’t happen but, right now, I—I can’t. This is all just so new.”

Anne kissed her forehead. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

Ann sniffed. “I’m sorry. I just need time to figure it all out. Can we talk about it later?”

“Of course,” Anne said with a small smile. She threaded their fingers together. “Why don’t we talk about something happier? Or we could figure out something else to do, if you’d rather not talk?”

Ann laughed, wiping away the last of her tears. She tucked her head in Anne’s neck and said cautiously, “Well. You said, ‘Mariana was right.’ Did you talk to her about us? When?” She paused. “Why?”

“The duchess and I are old friends. We talk about a lot of things. I…found it hard to read whether your tenderness for me was romantic. She helped me sort it all out.”

“What did she say?”

Anne grinned. “That expecting anything to come of my affection for you was unquestionably stupid.”

Ann snickered, and kissed her.

“You’re right, this is nice,” Anne hummed. “Still, she was right to advise me against it. This will be…tricky for us both.”

“Complicated,” Ann agreed, thinking of the poems turned to ashes in the fireplace. She frowned. “This is how tragedies begin, isn’t it? Like your book. The one you were asking about a few nights before the tourney.”

“Hmm. Not necessarily,” she said. Ann was not convinced.

Ann pressed, “Still. Do you think they thought it was worth it, the characters? All the anxiety. And the way it ended.”

“Why do you think this is going to be a tragedy?”

“Well, isn’t it? Something, something, ‘stories about people like us.’ Do they ever end happily? And why should they, when it’s forbidden? I don’t want to die. I don’t want you to die.”

“Ann. Our lives are not a story,” Anne assured her, smoothing her shoulders.

Ann picked the sleeve of her dress, her mind spinning. “And, in stories, something bad always has to happen after something good. I feel so happy, Anne. I haven’t felt like this in—ever. That means—that means—”

She squeaked in surprise from a sharp knock on the door. Anne quickly leaned over, kissed her cheek, and said, “Everything is going to be fine, Ann. I’m here. We’ll do this together.”

Anne opened the door, and said, “Ah. General Rawson. It’s about that time, isn’t it?”

The general stepped in and bowed politely to Ann. “I have the pleasure of being met by both her majesty and the queen’s champion herself. Congratulations are in order, I hear,” he said to Anne, giving her an exaggerated bow.

Anne frowned. “You ‘hear?’ Did you not attend the tourney, general? Not even to watch your own champion?”

“Eh, I had better things to do. Ser Robinson would have performed the same either way,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Needless to say, I won’t be sponsoring him again. Delightful to run into you, ser, but the queen and I have business to discuss,” he added, dismissing Anne.

“Oh, um, you can stay, captain,” Ann said. She threw Anne a grimace she hoped said, “Please.”

“Of course, your majesty.” Anne fell into form at the door.

The general’s eyebrows rose, but he made no comment. He took a seat across from Ann at her desk, boldly poured himself a glass of mead, and gestured to Ann. “Well, your majesty, I believe you are the winning party of our little wager. This is your hour to gloat.”

“Gloating isn’t really, um, something I intended to do in this meeting, general,” Ann said. “As I said, this is a very serious matter to me. It’s a decision I didn’t make lightly, and one I f-feel very strongly about.”

General Rawson waved his hand. “Gloat. I can be a good sport. Your father would have started as soon as his champion raised his fist in victory,” he urged.

“I am not my father,” Ann said.

“I suppose not. Your victory says as much,” he laughed. He poured a second glass, ignoring Ann’s pursed lips. “Let’s get on with it then, if that’s what you want.”

Anne’s presence bolstered her confidence. “As per the terms of our bet, General Rawson, you will not follow through with my father’s plan for conquest. That is an order,” Ann said, looking him in the eye. “Instead, you will continue to recruit and train soldiers, while utilizing all of them—not just new recruits—for building and repairing roads and bridges. If you or one of your subordinates notices other infrastructure that could do with repairing, do that, too. I will provide the coin for any men and materials you need to do the job correctly.”

The general nodded. “Yes, I believe that matches our agreement, your majesty.”

“Do you have any additional questions or concerns? Or, um, clarifications?”

“None that would hold under the terms of our agreement. I figure the consequences of this choice will unfold, in time,” he said. Bitterness colored his voice. “But I will rest with the knowledge that I did everything I could.”

Ann’s eyes flickered to Anne, whose hand was on the hilt of her sword. “Is that a threat?” Anne asked from behind him.

Without turning, the general laughed. “No, captain. If I ever truly threaten her majesty, you won’t need to ask. It was just a touch of advice. Ann, you are still a new queen, just past a grieving period, and you are about to learn that choices have consequences. I hope they treat you well,” he said, raising his glass.

“Th-thank you,” Ann blustered, unsure how else to respond. Her hands shook under the desk.

General Rawson stood and bowed. “In the spirit of competition, I expect to be the victor next time,” he said, winking.

He left, and Ann sighed.

“That went well,” Ann said, relieved. “Compared to what I expected, at least.”

Anne frowned. “Almost too well,” she said. She hesitated, then added, “That was entirely unlike him.”

“What do you mean? Perhaps the evening I gave him to cool off did the trick.”

“I don’t know. I would have expected him to storm in, accuse one or both of us of cheating, and demand a rematch, recompence, something. Even if he was calm, I would never expect him to be so…complacent. Something has to be going on,” Anne said.

Ann bit her lip, anxious. “Like what? You don’t think he’d try to…hurt me, do you?”

Anne sat down. She folded her hands, staring at the floor, thinking. “He’s mouthy, devious, and a coward, but I didn’t peg him as a traitor. And he’s your cousin. He doesn’t gain anything by…removing you,” she said, grimacing. “But intimidating you? Maybe.”

“What do you think he’ll try to do?” Ann said, wringing her hands.

“I don’t know. In the meantime, I’ll add an additional guard around the clock. They’ll keep me informed about anything off. And I’ll do what investigating I can. I’m sorry, Ann. I don’t mean to worry you. It’s probably nothing,” she said.

There was a crease between her eyebrows. Ann smoothed it away with her thumb.

“You’re cute,” Anne said, leaning into her touch. “And so sweet. No wonder you don’t like the mead, it’s nowhere near as sweet as you.”

“Oh? But you like it, are you light and dry, then?” Ann retorted. Then she flushed, realizing what she just said.

Anne snickered, pinching tears from her eyes. Through bursts of laughter, she said, “Good point. I suppose it’s not a very accurate metaphor.”

Ann’s cheeks and ears turned brilliant crimson.

Chapter Text

In the dark of night, Anne tiptoed through the castle, holding a candle aloft in front of her. Her only armor was a worn leather cuirass and bracers over a holey tunic and trousers, everyday clothes from her time as a soldier. She adjusted a large leather pack on her shoulder, nervous about what the queen would think of its contents. An ordinary sword hung from her waist, her free hand resting on the hilt to keep it steady.

The servants’ entrance to the queen’s quarters was closed off since the assassination. As captain of the kingsguard, Anne was the only one with the keys. She crouched to fit the narrow hallway. The old, musty air grew weaker after each locked door, the candlelight bouncing off broader, cleaner stones. At the final door, she stopped, tapped a small, coded knock on the wood, and waited.

On the other side, the queen responded with her own coded knock, so faint Anne almost missed it. She turned the key and opened the door.

“You came,” Ann whispered breathlessly. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

Ann stood against the window, the moonlight catching on the white fabric of her nightgown and the gold in her hair. She looked mystical, simultaneously shrouded by and bursting out of a feathery fog. For a moment, Anne almost believed in the gods.

“You asked me to whisk you away. Just for tonight, of course,” Anne said, setting the candle in the hallway to mask its light from Washington on guard outside. “I promised you an adventure. I’m about to fulfill that promise.”

Ann hummed. “Will you tell me what it is?”

“What’s the fun in that?” Anne teased. She shrugged the bag off her shoulder and handed it to Ann. “You can’t go out in that nightgown, unfortunately. These are nearly your size. I…borrowed them from the quartermaster.”

Ann took it, her eyebrow raised, and pulled out a creamy white tunic, a leather vest, a pair of trousers, and leather shoes. “I’ve…never worn anything like this before,” she said nervously, unfolding the trousers and staring at them with wide eyes.

“I considered taking a dress instead, but I figured this would really throw anyone off from recognizing you. There’s even a hat, if you want,” Anne added, reaching in the bag.

The queen took it from her, mouth agape. “Now you’ve really got me guessing,” she said. Then she bit her lip. “We aren’t going to a, um, a—er, never mind,” she said quickly.

“Hmm?”

“Well, it’s just—it’s late at night, we’ll be wearing m-men’s clothes…”Ann flushed.

Anne laughed quietly. “Oh! No, Ann. I wouldn’t dare to take the queen to a brothel, of all places. I am a knight, you know. I have some sense of what’s considered ‘decent'. Although, it would be an adventure,” she said, tapping her chin in fake contemplation.

“I suppose,” Ann said, a smile playing on her lips. “I’m glad, though. I—well, I wouldn’t really know what to do there. Er, what I would do if you did, I mean. Well, both.” She stared wide-eyed at Anne, mortified at the admission. “Um—I mean, ignore me, please.”

Anne smiled, but chose not to distress her by teasing her any further. She gave Ann a peck on the lips, then said, “Why don’t you change into those, then we can be off?”

Ann’s expression relaxed. She leaned into Anne and tilted her head up, asking for another kiss. Anne obliged with another chaste peck, smiled when Ann pouted afterword, and swept her into a long, deep kiss that ended with Anne’s teeth grazing her lip.

Ann hummed into her mouth. “Okay,” she said wistfully. “I’ll change. I won’t even order you to tell me where we’re going, but only because the mystery is so intriguing.”

Anne turned while she undressed, pacing the length of the window and peering into the dark night. Keeping her eyes steeled on the glittering waves in the distance, she restrained her mind from wandering while fabric ruffled and the queen cursed behind her.

Ann laughed uncomfortably. “Oh, I hate to ask. I can’t reach the button, Anne. Could you...?”

Wordlessly, Anne crossed the room to the queen. Ann held her hair up while Anne unbuttoned the top of her gown with one finger, undoing the second and third for good measure.

If it were anyone else, Anne might have skipped the outing altogether and asked to undress her all the way. However, everything with Ann had to be done delicately. She didn’t even look at the soft V of Ann’s exposed skin, but leaned closer, placed her hands lightly on her waist, and kissed the back of her neck.

“All done,” Anne whispered in her ear.

Ann shivered from her touch. “Okay. Turn around,” she commanded.

Anne folded her hands behind her back, looking out the window again while Ann shuffled out of and into clothes behind her. What the moon lit inside the room in white light, the window reflected, ghostly images superimposed on the darkness of the trees and sky. A bare thigh and gleam of a button were all Anne saw before she tore herself away, her eyes focused on the stone floor.

After a few long minutes, the queen said, “Okay, Anne, I think I’m all set.”

When Anne turned, her heart fluttered. The queen’s dresses were elegant, flattering, gorgeous, but there was something peculiar about her lovely, feminine figure dressed in men’s clothes. Anne couldn’t quite put her finger on it. While she herself drew strength and confidence from the way she dressed, Ann looked somehow meeker and gossamer. Yet the radiance of her smile told Anne she wasn’t exactly uncomfortable.

The tunic was a bit too wide in the shoulders, the seams resting loosely at the top of her biceps. The trousers were a perfect fit, the extra length of the tunic tucked in and the leather cinch to hold a short sword were all that was needed to keep them comfortably above her narrow hips.

“Looks like they fit well enough,” Anne said.

Ann giggled. She pulled on the crotch of the trousers. “Oh, these feel strange. How do you wear them every day? I feel like I’m—I’m boxed in.”

“You get used to it, I suppose. The benefits will quickly become apparent to you—it’s easier to move, and you can ride a horse rather than simply sitting on top of it. Maybe you won’t want to wear anything else, and it’ll become the new fashion among the other noblewomen,” Anne teased.

Ann snickered. “As if anyone would look to me for that sort of thing! Could you imagine Catherine wearing this? Or your friend, Duchess Lawton?”

“No. I suppose they’d rather be dead,” Anne said stiffly.

Shame welled in her gut. The queen likely saw this outfit as a silly costume. Is that what she thought of Anne? A woman dressed up as a knight, impersonating a man, and not as someone claiming her own place in the world? There were other women knights, sure, but they were few and far between. An oddity.

The only thing that betrayed these thoughts was the twitch of her jaw. She took solace knowing Ann at least wore it willingly. Mariana would have laughed, then refused.

“That’s a bit far, Anne,” she scolded, frowning. “They’re just clothes.”

“Just a figure of speech,” Anne said as lightly as she could, flashing Ann her best smile.

Ann threaded their fingers together. “I suppose. I always take things so seriously when I shouldn’t,” she said. With a fiendish laugh, she added, “If only I could influence women’s fashion. I’d inspire everyone to wear them, and anyone who thought it was strange would quickly realize they’re just clothes.”

Anne blinked in surprise. “You like the trousers?”

“I didn’t think I would. When you showed them to me, I thought I’d feel like a little boy. Instead, I feel a bit like you,” Ann said, blushing. “Confident, I mean. Like I could pick up a sword and stick it in someone mean.”

“As a knight, that is primarily what I do,” Anne agreed.

They laughed together. Relief quelled Anne’s anxieties. She was used to assuming the worst from others, and found it silly that she did so with the queen, who was only ever kind.

Anne removed a shortsword from the bag and offered it to Ann. She said, “Not that I expect you to need it, but I did bring this for you to carry.”

Ann took the scabbard and partially unsheathed it, her eyes widening when she saw the sharp edges of the blade. She eyed the sword apprehensively. “I-I don’t know how to use this,” she stammered.

“Only you and I know that,” Anne said. “There is a very, very small amount of risk involved with our excursion tonight. And—not that I expect anything to happen—it’s never a bad thing if any who might otherwise wish you harm are warded off. My presence should be more than enough.”

The queen trembled with excitement while she tied the sword to her waist. They embarked the way Anne came, taking an alternate route through the old servants’ passageways out of the castle. Ann followed closely behind her, gripping her hand, jumping when the candle threw strange shadows on the stones.

The tunnel exit was just behind the royal stables, where a scrappy brown horse stood prepared for them, his nose pushing hay on the ground. Anne decided against taking Argus for a myriad of reasons, the least of which was the attention such a large, well-bred stallion would draw.

Ann approached him immediately, stroking his cheek. “Oh, you’re such a rough looking thing, but so cute. I bet your name is Captain Lister,” she cooed.

“I’m choosing to ignore that,” Anne said sharply. “And only because you’re the queen.”

Ann grinned. She said, “This lovely creature is going to be our ride tonight? Sneaking around in the middle of the night, wearing common men’s clothes, and riding off on a horse that should be plowing a field...Captain Lister, you really know how to treat a queen like a common woman.”

Anne bit her cheek. “I apologize for the lack of grandeur and poetry. I figured it was best not to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing,” Ann said earnestly. “As I said, I already feel as if I’m in the midst of an adventure.”

Anne smiled. “Well, get on, and let’s be off.”

They travelled at a brisk pace for a little over forty-five minutes, until the lit lanterns of a town dotted the roadside ahead. Ann gasped when she saw them, and said, “Is this where we’re going?”

“Have you visited the surrounding villages often?”

“Er—no. I never find myself having a reason. It would likely be too much fanfare for the commonfolk, anyway, I’d just be needlessly interrupting their routines.”

“I suppose. We have a reason tonight, though. We’re going to the Stag’s Head Inn, where my favorite lutist is performing. I found her the very first week I was accepted into the kingsguard. Her voice is beautiful enough that the queen herself should hear it,” Anne said with a smile.

“Oh! This is a wonderful surprise. But, um, won’t we be recognized?”

“Trust me, Ann, no one here has ever seen your face. You’re just an idea to them,” Anne assured her. “Even if they’ve seen a painting of you, or seen you from a distance in the city, they would never expect you to be among them, dressed in this.”

“And you?”

Anne shrugged. “I come here every once in a while to play cards. The owner knows who I am, but I doubt even the regular patrons pay enough attention to know or care.”

Even from the outside, the Stag’s Head was boisterous and loud, swells of music, laughter, and shouting pouring into the streets from the windows. They stepped through the door, revealing a room packed to the brim with patrons, barmaids and men shuffling between tables hugging mugs of beer to their chests. So many patrons sucked on pipes that a permanent cloud of smoke hung near the ceiling.

Anne watched the queen, who had surely never experienced such a scene in her life, turn in all directions, trying to take in everything at once.

“How often does an event like this happen?” Ann exclaimed. “There are so many people—why, this lutist of yours must be quite good.”

Anne bit back a laugh. “Every night.” Ann raised her eyebrows, so she added, “This isn’t the draw of the lutist—this bar is busy nearly every night. After a hard day’s work in the fields or farms or stores, this is the excitement one has to look forward to.”

Ann watched a nearby arm wrestling match with awe. “This is much more exciting than a ball,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “Although the smell is certainly worse.”

“Yes. If you drink enough, you stop noticing it,” Anne agreed. She placed her arm around Ann’s waist, guiding her through the packed crowd to the bar. Ann clung to her tightly, trying and failing to avoid brushing against strangers as they walked.

"Oh, wow, her majesty finally let you take a night off,” the bartender shouted as they neared the bar. “How generous of her. What would you like to celebrate your freedom, Annie? Something strong? Maybe with a little heat? I think I’ve got a kind of whiskey—something with ‘dragonfire’ in the name, not sure if they’re being serious or trying to market it to knight-y folks like you. Want to find out?”

“The queen doesn’t write the guard schedule, Tib, I do. I’ve told you that,” Anne shouted back. She took a seat at the bar and added, “And I’ll just have something light.”

“Careful, Annie. Your sour mood might send this one running to me,” Tib teased, winking at Ann, who laughed. “And that would be a bad idea. I’m not as kind, nor as honorable.”

“This is my good friend, Tib Norcliffe,” Anne said, glaring at Tib. “We’ve known each other for many years.”

Tib was the kind of woman Anne would have been proud to fight alongside as a soldier, or, if she were a knight, recommend to the queen for the kingsguard. Though kindred spirits, Tib was a bit wilder than Anne, not quite as adept at reading a room, and didn’t possess the diligence or interest in training to be either.

Still, Anne didn’t doubt a sword was a terrifying weapon in the woman’s hands. Not that she would ever wield one. In Tib’s drunken words: “A sword is a coward’s weapon. If you really want to kill someone and get away with it after, you use an ax.”

“I’m Ann,” Ann said brightly.

“Who isn’t?” Tib said, mocking the queen’s enthusiasm.

For fuck’s sake, Anne thought, realizing the magnitude of how terrible an idea this was. Tib didn’t know she was speaking to the queen, of course. However, Anne suspected that if Tib did, the knowledge wouldn’t change her behavior at all. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Tib, don’t be rude,” Anne said.

“Oh! I didn’t think you were being malicious. I wish more people talked to me with that level of familiarity, honestly,” Ann gushed. She hugged Anne’s arm. “Anne, you didn’t tell me your friends were funny.”

Tib leaned forward. “What you should be asking is, ‘Annie, why hasn’t Tib’s wonderful sense of humor rubbed off on you?’”

“I think you’re perfect,” Ann whispered in her ear. “Your humor is much more sensible.”

“You aren’t going to start calling me ‘Annie,’ are you?” Anne asked grimly.

“I’m thinking about it.”

Anne groaned. “I’m very much regretting this. Perhaps I should have said a firm ‘no’ to whisking you away. Neither of you will have ever met, and I could go on longing for you in poetry like a proper knight,” she muttered.

“What are you blathering about now?” Tib said, raising her voice so she could be heard clearly over the chaos around them.

“I’m going to take Ann where you aren’t, you’re a bad influence,” Anne answered.

Tib laughed. “Maria will be playing over there,” she directed, pointing at the far left corner. To Ann, she said, “Why don’t you go sit down, dear? Anne will be there soon.”

“I’m not sure if that’s the best idea,” Anne protested.

Tib waved her hand. “Oh, she’ll be fine, the crowd’s been rather calm tonight. You worry too much,” Tib said. “Go on, Anne will be over in a minute. I’ve got something I want to ask her.”

Ann dove bravely into the swirling mass of bodies, her drink sloshing and dribbling over her hand. Anne watched as she sat at an empty table, small, meek, totally out of her element. Brimming with anxiety and looking for something to do, the queen brought the drink to her lips and grimaced from the taste.

Eager to get back to Ann and the teasing from Tib over with, Anne turned to Tib. “What do you want?”

Tib smirked. “The girl is quite enchanted by you,” she observed.

“The feeling is returned,” Anne admitted.

“Oh? Has the honorable Ser Captain Lister finally met the woman that makes her regret her oaths?” Tib teased, flourishing her voice at Anne’s title.

“Trust me, it wouldn’t matter, regardless of my oaths,” Anne said. She swallowed a mouthful of beer. “She’d be quite off the market—for the likes of me, anyway.”

Tib stared at Ann, like the girl was a puzzle she could piece together. “She doesn’t look rich. But I suppose some of the old families don’t have much wealth anymore,” she observed. “But, hmm, she sits proper, and like she’s wearing a dress. Which mean she’s been trained or had a strict mother. What did you say her name was?”

“I don’t remember her last name.”

“Then how do you know she’s too good for you? Unless she told you so?” Tib flashed her a toothy grin. “Surely you know all the lines when a girl’s playing hard to get, Captain Lister.”

“Hmm,” was all Anne offered as a reply.

“I know you think I’m nosy and bothersome, but I’m doing my duty as your friend, and looking out for you. It makes me nervous, how serious you seem about this one,” Tib said, sternly brandishing a dirty glass at her. “I just want you to be careful. You know where to find me, if it doesn’t turn out. Or if you need to hide a body.”

Anne balked. “Who do you think I would kill, Tib?”

Tib snickered. “Well, mostly I was talking about hiding your body, with a couple of executioners on your tail.”

“I hope not,” Anne said. Not for the first time since that night in the library, she thought about the fate of the servant and her child. Anne’s own hand curled over the pages of the records, debating whether to erase them completely from history, then deciding against it, smoothing the creased pages, and returning the book to its shelf. Ready to be found again by someone who had discovered their secret.

Unaware of Anne’s internal struggle, Tib stood on a stool, peering over the crowd of heads to look at Ann. “It looks like she’s finished her drink already,” Tib said. “Here, take this one over to her. It’s on the house.”

Anne found the queen at her table, no longer unoccupied, focused on a game of chess. Her opponent was heavy-set, his skin reddened and tanned from the sun, his hands rough and calloused. Anne set down the drinks, took the seat beside her, and watched.

The queen was good at the game. Each of her turns took at least a few minutes, her eyes darting to each piece on the board, contemplating the consequences of every move. Her opponent quickly grew frustrated; his turns took only seconds, and when he moved a piece the others jolted from their squares. Instead of being intimidated, as Anne might have expected, a slow smile crept up Ann’s face.

“Checkmate,” she said, after a particularly long turn.

Her opponent studied the board, frowning. “I don’t see it,” he said.

Wordlessly, Ann pointed it out for him.

He ground his teeth. “Bullshit,” he accused.

Anne smelled the whiskey on his breath from across the table. She bristled. Laughing, the queen put a hand on her chest, stilling her.

“I like you,” she said to him. “If everyone just said what they were thinking, the world would be a simpler place, don’t you think?”

Out of the side of his eye, he noticed Anne glaring at him, her hand on her sword. His tightened fist relaxed. “Sure, miss,” he said through his teeth, eyes flicking between her and Anne. He stood up slowly, eyes locked where Anne gripped the hilt over the edge of the table. “Thanks for the game.”

“I expect to see another drink here within the hour, as per the terms of our bet,” Ann called as he walked away, patting the table. She turned to Anne. “Look, I’m already making friends.”

Good lord, she’s already nearly drunk, Anne realized, catching the gentle slur in Ann’s voice.

“I didn’t know you liked chess,” Anne said, biting back the anxiety creeping in her stomach. “You’ll have to play me sometime.”

“My brother and I used to play each other for hours,” Ann explained. “I never won for the longest time. And then one day, the game clicked for me. And then I won again and again, no matter how many times we played. It made him so upset.”

“You shouldn’t have told me. Now I know not to take it easy on you.”

“Good, I’d be so livid if you did!”

Anne patted her knee. “Maria is about to start. I’ve got the best seat in the house, if you want it.”

Ann flushed, but climbed onto her lap. The queen was clumsy and heavy with drunkenness, her finger tracing Anne’s jawline with far too much curiosity. They watched together while Maria plucked the strings to tune her instrument, throwing bright, clear notes into the air. The voices nearest her hushed. Ann slouched in her lap, petting the sleeves of Anne’s arms wrapped around her.

Maria caught Anne’s eye, smiled, and began teasing the familiar notes of Knight atop Serpent Mountain—a classic and one of Anne’s favorites—from her lute.

Fearsome Serpent Mountain
The tooth that tore the sky
Home to the dragon
Who swelled the sun with her fire

“You’re right,” Ann said, leaning over to whisper in her ear. Her breath tickled Anne’s throat. “Her voice is pretty. And I recognize this song.”

Anne turned to meet her eyes. She grinned and said, “I knew you would like her.”

“I can kiss you here, can’t I?” Ann asked, pressing their foreheads together. “Even though there are people everywhere.”

Anne smiled playfully. “If you want.”

Ann kissed her delicately, her soft, lovely mouth pressing kisses on Anne’s cheeks, her top lip, then her bottom lip, and finally on her mouth, allowing Anne to brush their tongues together. Anne felt her moan into her mouth rather than heard it, the bright, deep notes of the lute continuing behind them.

A knight of such beauty
Began a harrowing quest
To find a weapon worthy
Of slaying the god-beast at her nest

“Can I tell you a secret?” Ann whispered, squeezing her bicep with both hands. “I think your arms are actually just rocks. They’re definitely a worthy weapon.” She collapsed into a fit of giggles.

“And I think you’ve had quite enough to drink.”

The blade shimmered in mist
It touched her strong, sure hands
And a tongue of green flame lashed out, licking its edge

“I didn’t know the knight in this song was a woman,” Ann said.

“In her version, she is.”

Maria looked over at her then, wetting her lips between verses. The pink of her tongue showed through her teeth when she smiled. When Ann turned, the musician looked away, the same shy smile still playing on her lips.

“Look how she glances at you,” Ann whispered. “So coy. I think she likes you. She’s putting you in her song.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “Because she knows I like this one. I request it almost every time.”

“Uh huh. I don’t blame her, you know. You’re very lovely, I often think that you’re the kind of knight worth writing songs about.”

Maria continued to play, each song flowing seamlessly into the next. Anne recognized most of them; she loved the classics, and the lutist knew it, like a skilled musician adapting her set to her audience. Two hours later, the end of her performance shifted to originals. They were exquisite, picturesque pieces about places she travelled to and peculiar people she met. Anne was relieved not to hear the one written about herself, particularly in Ann’s company.

Out of the corner of Anne’s eye, a figure caught her attention. If her eyes weren’t trained to lift oddities from the room, she wouldn’t have noticed him. Anne was suspicious of the way he held himself and moved across the room, rather than physical features. His perfect posture made him taller than he was, gliding across the tavern the way one might weave through crowds across the dance floor of a ball. Among the clumsy, untrained common folk, the hood of his cloak shrouded his identity from Anne as well as if he’d walked in stark naked.

A gray cloak of fine fabric replaced his typical bright color palette. He lacked the embellished jewelry Anne saw him in last, down to a sword at his waist as ordinary as Anne’s. She watched him over the rim of her mug, squeezing Ann’s hand.

Ann turned to look at her, a grin splitting her face. “What is it, darling?” she asked, slurring the words.

Anne only stared straight ahead. He paused at a table, removed his hood as he leaned forward to speak to two other patrons. Her grip on Ann’s hand tightened when she saw his face, and her suspicions were confirmed.

Ann kissed the corner of her mouth, trying to get her attention. When Anne didn’t respond to the kiss, she clicked her tongue, then followed where Anne was looking. Her breath caught. “Is that—"

“Duke Ainsworth,” Anne said. “We have to leave. Now.”

“Has he seen us?”

“I don’t know.”

Ann stood, then stumbled back. “Whoop,” she sputtered, then laughed. “This isn’t good, is it?”

Anne caught her arm. “Why don’t you hold on to me?” she suggested.

“Oh? You mean? Take your arm? Don’t mind if I do,” Ann said, biting her lips. She hugged Anne’s arm tightly.

They made their way slowly out of the bar, held up by wayward chairs, meandering bodies, and the queen’s awkward, drunken steps. Anne watched the duke through the crowd. He stepped away from the table, looked over his shoulder, and through the sea of bodies, met Anne’s eyes.

His eyes flicked to Ann, clinging to her arm. Anne’s heart hammered in her chest. His eyebrows furrowed, and before Anne could see where he went next, she lost sight of him in the crowd.

“I lost him,” Anne growled. She hurried them forward, jostling shoulders and pushing people out of their way.

“He’s creepy,” Ann whispered, grimacing.

“Why is he even near the castle still? Does he not have a duchy to run?” Anne muttered aloud.

Ann blew a raspberry. “Please. Dukes don’t do anything but complain,” she said, a bit too loudly. She covered her mouth, then added in a whisper, “That was very unkind of me. Dukes do so much for my kingdom. They travel a lot, and do so much of it through letters and middlemen, so the process feels unbearably arduous. That’s fairer of me to say, isn’t it?”

“What has he been saying in his letters?”

“Duke Ainsworth? Um—” Ann looked away, turning red. “I, um, I’m not really sure. I haven’t exactly been reading them,” she said. She cowered under Anne’s fierce gaze, adding quickly, “I can’t get past his greetings! They’re so—ugh. They can’t possibly contain anything important, so I, you know.” She made a motion with her hands of crumpling something up, throwing it, and then wiggled her fingers while moving her hands in an outward motion.

“Does that mean fire?” Anne said, working to keep her tone steady. Ann nodded. “You burned his letters?”

“Um, yes.”

“Ann! Why didn’t you show them to me? I’m the captain of your guard, I can’t effectively protect you if you don’t tell me things like this,” Anne said, exasperated.

“I didn’t think they were important,” Ann protested. She flushed. “And my family is already so cross about you and him, I didn’t want to instigate it further. Especially if it was over nothing.”

Outside the Stag’s Head stables, Anne sighed. Since they arrived at the tavern, the temperature had dipped below freezing, and her breath was visible in the air. She gathered Ann in her arms and said, “I don’t care about your family, Ann. Not how they feel, nor what they think. You are my priority. Your safety is my responsibility.”

“I’m sorry,” Ann said, voice laden with guilt. “I’ll show you next time. I promise.”

They mounted the horse, the queen centered safely in her arms, and took off toward the castle in a gallop. Almost as soon as the town’s lanterns winked out of sight, Ann was asleep, snoring lightly at her shoulder. Her head bobbed off the leather at the rhythm of the gallop. Anne freed her left hand to steady her, holding the reins tightly with her right.

A matter of minutes from the castle, Anne ran her fingers through Ann’s hair until her eyes fluttered awake.

“Mmm. I’ll sleep here tonight,” Ann hummed, sinking back into her arms.

“We’re nearly to the castle,” Anne informed her. “It will be quieter to walk the rest of the way.”

“Oh, I don’t want to go back,” Ann sighed. “Let’s stay in this moment forever.”

Anne obeyed. She stilled the horse, who dipped down to sniff and chew at the crisp grass. Holding Ann tightly, she rested her chin on Ann’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. She closed her eyes, committing the moment to memory. A shock of air filled her lungs with every breath, like a rush of cold water. Ann’s warm cheek rested against hers. The taut, firm muscle of Ann’s smile she felt but couldn’t see. She didn’t count the number of breaths they sat there, but instead savored the crisp, cold air around them, the sweet, floral scent of Ann’s perfume, and the smoke and liquor that lingered on their breath and clothes. It was a moment all theirs, separate from time, that they each could return to with perfect clarity if they only closed their eyes.

Ann’s teeth began to chatter. Anne kissed her cheek. “Are you ready?” she asked gently.

“If I must be,” she said.

Anne pursed her lips. “I would hate for you to freeze.”

“I don’t feel cold.”

“Hmm. I shouldn’t have let you drink so much,” Anne muttered.

After dismounting the horse and returning him to the stable, they reentered the castle through the servants’ tunnels. It was a noisier affair than Anne would have liked: Ann’s scabbard scraped the wall, and she smacked her head on the low, wooden beams, unhurt but cursing softly from the shock.

Catching Ann before she could collapse on her bed, Anne whispered, “We need to get you out of these clothes. We don’t want your maid to have a heart attack in the morning.”

“Yes, you’re quite right,” Ann mumbled. Her hands played with the leather belt at her waist for a few seconds before she gave up, throwing Anne a defeated look. “How do I untie this? My hands aren’t doing what I want.”

With a gentle smile, Anne untied it for her. She was mindful of the attached sword, holding it so it didn’t clatter to the floor. Accustomed to others undressing her, Ann held out her arms, waiting for Anne to continue. Anne raised her eyebrows, but obeyed, swiftly stripping her of the vest and tunic. She repressed the urge to take in all of her, lingering only on the smattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, then gathered the nightgown where it lay discarded at the end of the bed.

“Hold your arms above your head,” Anne directed. She slipped the nightgown over the queen’s head, tugging the fabric over her as she squirmed like a child.

When she unbuttoned Ann’s trousers, Ann’s breath hitched. Thankfully, the gown spilled down to cover everything as Anne slipped them off her thighs and calves. Anne pushed the queen gently onto the bed. On her knees, Anne untied her shoes and slid the trousers off, rolled them in a ball, and stuffed the clothes quickly into the leather bag.

“Well,” Anne said, standing. She flushed from the intimacy of it. “I’ll be going to bed now. Thanks for letting me steal you away for a night. I’m sorry it ended to terribly.”

Ann giggled, gathering the blanket in her arms and hugging it. “You can steal me away anytime,” she said, her words less slurred than before. “I mean it. This isn’t a terrible ending at all—you’d make an excellent lady’s maid, you know. You have quite a talent for dressing and undressing me.”

Anne couldn’t help but smirk. “I get that a lot.”

“Do you?” The queen’s eyebrows raised.

Anne coughed, covering her mouth with a hand. “Of course not, your majesty.”

Ann groaned. “Oh, I hate that. ‘Your majesty,’ ‘her majesty,’ ‘my queen,’ ugh. My name is Ann. Just when I think I’ll forget my own name, people use it is as an insult. Like they don’t want to acknowledge that I’m the queen, so they use my name instead of my title. Or I’m only this figure to them, so they never do! I’m a person. I’m a person,” she finished, voice trembling.

“Ann,” Anne said softly, smoothing her hair. “I’m sorry. I care for you. But if I don’t use your title in public—”

“I know,” Ann waved her hand. “I know. But imagine if everyone in your life called you ‘knight,’ ‘captain,’ or ‘ser,’ professionally and personally. Your family. Your friends. Your—” she sniffed. “Other people.”

“I—”

“They do, of course,” Ann continued, muttering, unaware that Anne tried to speak. “Captain Lister, Ser Anne Lister, I know. But what I mean is, at least they use your name. At least they—they respect you. They see you as a complete, whole person. Not just a proverbial figure who they wish would stop getting in the middle of everything, or a little girl p-pretending to be her father.”

Anne took Ann’s face in her hands, her thumbs running over her cheeks. “You are so hard on yourself,” she said. “Shame on anyone who refuses to see your wit, intelligence, and sensibility.”

“I don’t—”

“Hush,” Anne said. “You are sweet and kind. You are a good queen. And you need rest.”

Anne leaned forward to kiss her good night. Ann kissed her with far too much tongue, her mouth moving with the hungry fervor of a drunk. Anne pulled away, and gently pressed her lips to Ann’s forehead.

Ann held her by her collar and into her mouth breathed, “Stay tonight. Please.”

“I can’t,” Anne said. She smiled apologetically. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

Anne bit her cheek. “It wouldn’t be very knightly of me. Even if I wasn’t a knight, it wouldn’t be decent. You might regret it after.”

“No, I won’t,” Ann plead. She peppered kisses on Anne’s mouth. “I’m ready. Please.”

Pursing her lips, Anne shook her head. “No. Even if you weren’t drunk, I—” She paused, sucking in a breath. “Not until we know what we’re doing. What this is. Not unless we have a—a commitment of some kind.”

Ann recoiled from her. “I—okay. I’m sorry,” she stuttered.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Anne said, taking her hand. “Good night, Ann. Thank you for tonight. I had a good time.”

“I did, too.”

Chapter Text

“You are irritatingly good at this game,” Anne muttered, twirling the knight in her hand before she placed it.

Ann laughed. “I wasn’t lying to you!”

She almost asked if the captain put her knight in harm’s way on purpose. Instead, she pursed her lips and considered her options, making sure the move wasn’t a small piece of a greater plan; getting cocky in chess was a dangerous thing. After a minute, she decided Anne simply didn’t see the move, and took out her knight with a bishop.

“Yes, well, thrashing a drunken farmer is one thing,” Anne said, biting back frustration. “I, on the other hand, once thought myself very good at chess, but now I see I have a lot to learn.”

“Do you want me to take it easier on you?” Ann quipped. Then she flushed, embarrassed by her own gloating.

Anne glared at her. “Of course not. I just need to think more. Try getting into your brain.”

“You’d be surprised by what goes on in there, probably. I’d be quite embarrassed. Playing against you is a bit distracting for me,” Ann admitted shyly. “That’s why I’m taking longer than usual.”

It was the truth. Anne looked particularly enchanting today, having shed her coat in the heat of competition. She wore a tan tunic, the collar untied and loose, revealing the curve of her neck and a triangle of collarbone. Ann imagined kissing her there, her skin warm, delicate, and a little bit salty.

Tendrils of hair unfurled from Anne’s braid. She patted them down, then tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. She huffed, “You’ve already proven you’re better than me, don’t rub it in.”

Anne placed her piece, taking out the bishop Ann offered as bait. Ann allowed a triumphant smile to reach her lips. She moved her own knight to the newly opened square and declared, “Checkmate.”

“That’s your three to my one,” Anne said, pursing her lips. “Best out of seven?”

Ann laughed. “If it means I get to spend more time with you, I can play all day. Would you like white or black?”

“I’ve had the best luck on black. I need every advantage I can get,” Anne said. “Although that little grin you get when you win is very cute.”

“As if I need more things to be embarrassed about after yesterday,” Ann said, grimacing. They arranged their pieces on the board. “I acted like a fool. I didn’t expect that drink to be so strong.”

Horror struck Ann as the memory of her begging the captain to sleep with her surfaced. The sensation of Anne’s touch, unbuttoning her trousers, tugging them down her legs, and the hint of remorse in her refusal crashed through her all at once, simultaneously lovely and humiliating.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Anne said, grinning.

Ann sucked in a breath. She moved her first piece, then said, “That may be true, but I’ll wake up every night in the middle of the night for the next decade mortified about it all, anyway.”

“Oh, Ann,” she sighed. She patted her knee. “Come here.”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Ann accused,

Anne rolled her eyes. She said, “Yes, from yourself. You’re your worst critic, as usual.”

Ann scoffed, but did as Anne asked, sitting lightly on her lap. She folded her legs like she was sitting in a chair, tucking her ankles around Anne’s boot. They kissed. Anne’s hand smoothed over her thigh, tickling her through the silk dress. Ann smacked her away.

“It’s not fair to tease me,” she said, giggling, pressing a kiss on Anne’s top lip.

“You sit so properly,” Anne said. “I like the challenge of getting you to crack.”

“You only think so because you have such a hard time sitting still. You can’t even stand still,” Ann teased. “When you’re on duty, you’re always pacing around, or bouncing your leg, or sharpening a sword. Oh, you’d be so miserable to paint.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Ann exclaimed. “I’ve thought about asking you once or twice, but I know I’d spend half the time trying to get you to just stay put. You did well when I sketched you after the tourney, but only because you were so tired, and painting is a much longer affair.”

Anne’s eyebrows raised. “You’ve...given this a fair bit of thought.”

“I go back and forth on it all the time,” Ann groaned. “And then I think ‘what would she do with a painting of herself, anyway?’ And now with the Duke Ainsworth thing…” She sucked her teeth. “No. People would think we’re too close.”

Anne brushed her cheek with a thumb. “Let me worry about that,” she said. She peppered kisses on Ann’s neck and shoulder. “You already have enough to think about.”

Ann trembled nervously. She stood, circling the table to walk it off. With a heavy breath, she said, “I just—I keep thinking, do you think he saw us? What if he did?”

Anne bit her cheek, looking away. “As we were leaving, we made eye contact. He saw me. He may have seen you, but I’d be surprised if he recognized you. You were...not yourself,” she said, with a touch of humor.

Ann’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell me? Until now? Anne, I’ve—I’ve put you in danger by being here, by being seen accompanying you here off duty, as friends—”

“It’s my risk to take on,” Anne said. “If he saw us both, well, there’s no helping it now. Except to pretend he never did. By all accounts, you were here, in the castle. Any accusation of his wouldn’t be believable.”

Ann struggled to breathe. At any time, someone could burst through the library door, levelling Ainsworth’s accusation upon Anne. Even on her throne, Ann knew she would be powerless at Anne’s trial, her family, General Rawson, and Duke Ainsworth only a few of the many parties converging against them. Her hands shook. Her mind backtracked to the accusation, the rest of the kingsguard bursting through the door, willing to disarm her themselves, somehow knowing Anne was at fault—

“The other guards know you have the key to the servant’s entrance,” Ann pressed. Her vision whitened as her mind continued to spin. She stumbled into her chair, holding her head. “Oh, gods…”

Anne grimaced. “Yes.”

“Someone could put it together. What do you think the duke would do? Would we know anything before—before—”

“Well, I imagine he would tell your family. They’ve all got it out for me, for some reason or another. I was never your father’s most popular choice,” Anne said, twirling a pawn in her fingers. “You have the power to deny it, of course. But if anything could be proved—well, as I’ve said, there’s precedent. At some point it would undermine your rule, and I would have to be taken care of.”

“I’ll just c-command them not to,” Ann declared. Would she be strong enough to defy them?

Anne nodded, then sucked her teeth. “Yes, to start out with, but it wouldn’t matter, in the end. Narratives can be spun.”

“But it wouldn’t be the truth!”

“Sometimes the truth doesn’t matter,” Anne said sadly. She took Ann’s hand. “Everything will be alright. We wait for him to make a move if he’s going to make it and until then, all we have to do is be careful. As we have been.”

“B-but what if—”

Ann didn’t want to think about it. She poured all her strength into stopping her brain from turning. She didn’t want to think about it. Not the blade of a guillotine, nor the tightening of a noose. Not the long, menacing glare of an executioner’s ax, nor their faceless hood. She didn’t want to think about it. Not about what would happen to Anne because of her, a queen too weak to choose duty over love, too stupid to control the web of courtly intrigue. Who but Ann could be both a queen and powerless?

“You were right,” Ann whispered. “Before.”

Anne’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Everything I said last night was the ramblings of a child. A queen who is weak and stupid and unfit to rule. Who puts her kingdom and people she cares about at risk. You were right to call me by title only. If anyone overhears us—”

Anne interrupted her, “They won’t, Ann. We’re perfectly safe.”

Ann bristled. She said coldly, “Captain Lister, I am your queen. I rescind my request from before to call me by my first name. You will address me appropriately from now on as ‘your majesty.’ From this point, our relationship will be professional.”

The captain’s expression fell. She recoiled from Ann.

“Of course, your majesty,” Anne said, standing. She looked down at the board. “I concede this game to you. I have other things to attend to, if you have no further need of me.” Her jaw twitched.

“No. You are dismissed.”

Ann’s bottom lip trembled. A wet, blubbering apology threatened to spill from the tip of her tongue. She bit it back, clenching her jaw until the large, heavy library doors thudded shut. Then she relaxed, and the taste of salt filled her mouth.

***

One more knock on her room door, and Anne was going to lose her mind, if not her passion for poetry, the novel, and the essence of romance itself. She slammed her journal shut, bound the pages with a leather string, and pulled out a half-written letter to the captain of the city guard.

“I’m off today,” Anne growled over her shoulder. “Unless this is an emergency and my intervention is essential, I am not to be disturbed until tomorrow.”

Washington’s firm but pathetically trembling voice answered, “Okay Cap—”

“Oh, not to worry, Ser Washington,” a calm voice interrupted. Anne snapped the pen in her hand when she paired it with its owner. “She’ll want to speak with me. Ser Lister? This is Duke Ainsworth.”

Anne pinched the bridge of her nose. She was not in a state to receive guests of his station: her hair hung loose from her braid, begging to be washed, and her tunic and trousers were thin and holey from wear. A blot of ink oozed from the broken pen, staining her hand. Anne rushed for a cloth to clean it, then opened the door.

Without looking at Duke Ainsworth, she said, “You are dismissed, Washington. And please, short of the queen herself, do not bring anyone else to me today. Even if they’re a new recruit that has arrived a week early, taking no one’s time or schedule into account. I don’t even want a knock on the door for my dinner. Understood?”

Washington nodded, then edged down the hallway. Anne gestured for the duke to step in, then closed the door behind him. “How can I help you, your grace?” she said, smoothing away any remnants of irritation in her tone.

The duke grinned, his eyes moving from her hair to her trousers and muddy boots. “Not had a good day, I take it? Did you get enough rest?”

Anne ignored him. “What do you need?” she repeated.

Ainsworth sucked his teeth. “You are always straight to business. I wanted to apologize to both you and the queen regarding my rudeness during our meeting last month. I was, admittedly, a bit forward with the queen. I had courted her briefly before, but her father refused my proposal,” he said. “After her parents died I thought—well, maybe her priorities had changed.”

Anne said nothing, and waited.

The duke rolled his eyes. “I wish you would be less difficult, captain. This conversation is about to get a little uncomfortable for the both of us.”

Anne’s heartbeat spiked. The anticipation of unravelling what the duke knew about their relationship set her blood singing in her ears.

Feigning boredom, Anne said, “Go on, then.”

“The reason I bring up my indiscretion, captain, is because I see myself as a man capable of admitting to my mistakes. ‘Posturing,’ as you call it, has its place, especially in the complicated, delicate dealings of the court. Of course, as captain of the kingsguard, you know this.”

“I wish you would get to your point, your grace. I do have work to get to before the day is done,” Anne said sharply.

“Oh? It was my understanding that this was your day off,” he said.

“My days off free me from other people, not my responsibilities.” Anne gestured at her unfinished letter. “Usually, anyway,” she added bitterly.

The duke raised his hands in mock defeat. “If you’d rather I leave—”

“Make me uncomfortable, your grace,” Anne challenged. “You aren’t the first man to test my mettle.”

Duke Ainsworth held her gaze, then said, “You have quite a special relationship with the queen.”

The queen’s assertion earlier today surfaced in Anne’s mind; Ann’s familiar, kind smile and loving glances turning blue and cold with fear, and Anne helpless to assuage her anxieties. Anne had failed, as Mariana had warned her, and their relationship was no longer special and affectionate. She pushed down the melancholy gathering in her stomach.

Wearing her signature blank expression, Anne’s face betrayed nothing. She said, “What makes you say so?”

Duke Ainsworth shrugged. “Rather unusual for a guard to take her majesty alone on a midnight excursion, and so far away from the castle. And to a place as common and lowly as a tavern! A fitting place for you, and less so for me, but we’re all guilty of uncommon pleasures.”

Anne laughed. “And which girl did you mistake as the queen? The drunken fool hanging off my arm?”

“Oh, I don’t think it was a mistake. I recognize the queen’s figure anywhere, ser,” he said, winking. “And it was quite a bit more than hanging on your arm. There was some affection during the performance. Your relationship seems…familiar.”

A smile touched her lips. “Are you jealous, your grace?”

“No. Just curious.”

“I hate to be the one to inform you, then, that you don’t have as firm a grasp on her majesty’s ‘figure’ as you would like. You can confirm her location last night with my men, if you wish,” Anne suggested. “And I would take care to speak of her majesty more politely in my company, your grace. She is our queen.”

“Not that I would ever question the effectiveness and passion of her personal guard, but I doubt they would tell me the truth if the queen, I don’t know, swore them to secrecy about the excursion,” he reasoned. “I’m sorry, Captain Lister, I’m sure you’re usually a convincing liar, but I know what I saw.”

“The queen and I have a professional relationship, your grace. Though we play the occasional game of chess, it barely even crosses the threshold of friendship. Nothing more,” Anne said. “And what of you? Last night didn’t look like a social call, your grace.”

The duke bowed his head. He said, “That observation, captain, is why I thought it prudent to talk to you about our little encounter straight away. I believe it’s best to have an honest, open conversation where I can explain myself and you yourself, so there are no mysteries or wayward assumptions between us.”

“Why don’t you start?” Anne suggested. “What were you doing there? You didn’t really look yourself.”

“Garnishing oneself in rich fabrics and jewelry doesn’t really endear one to the commonfolk, as you can imagine. My friends there have simpler tastes,” Ainsworth said. “As to what I was doing, I admit, I did have some business dealings. Nothing terribly exciting, especially when compared to what your imagination may have conjured.”

Anne smiled. “Bore me, then.”

The duke proceeded to do just that, going into details about dealings with stone for a new room in his castle, labor costs, and space issues for housing the workers during winter. Anne gleaned nothing interesting from the explanation, except the names of the friends in question, and resolved to ask Tib what she knew.

“Your turn, captain. What is the truth behind you and her majesty’s outing last night?”

With a laugh, Anne said, “It was what you saw. Despite my oaths, I like to flirt with women in the villages once in a while. But certainly not the queen herself! I’m flattered, though, that you think I could charm who you could not. Flirting is not illegal, surely, but a bit embarrassing for my unit, who are rather fond of our honorable reputation.”

Ainsworth clicked his tongue. “I’m afraid this conversation only works if we are both honest, Ser Lister. Why must you be difficult?”

Anne raised her eyebrows in mock offense. “I have been just as truthful as you have been, your grace.”

“Hmm.” Ainsworth rubbed his chin, but looked otherwise unbothered. “If we can’t trust the other to be truthful in our honest, open conversation, what are we to do?”

“It seems we are at an impasse,” Anne observed.

The duke smiled. “I prefer to think of it as an understanding.”

When he left, Anne locked the door behind him. She stared ahead without seeing. While she remained confident that the duke could not prove Ann had accompanied her and would be perceived as a fool for making the accusation, her gut churned with anxiety.

Duke Ainsworth was a man who wore his emotions plainly on his face. That was the reason Anne considered him turgid and unrefined, not worthy of being seen as a true threat. His jovial, teasing mood throughout their conversation disturbed her more than any of the things he witnessed the night before.

The duke had played at her fears. Nipping at first, teasing at what he knew, and then accusing her outright. He arrived at her door, uninvited, to torment and embarrass her, while revealing nothing of himself, yet laid out his hand across the table to do so. Was he that stupid? Unless he was trying to mislead her, but from what?

Anne rested her head on the door, taking a deep breath. After a few moments, she returned to her desk, tucked away the letter, and paged through her journal. She chose not to read over her previous entry from today. She chose not to think about Ann, or the ache in her chest. Or being on duty tomorrow. Instead, she wrote, Investigate the duke. What was he doing at Stag’s Head?

Chapter Text

In the week following Duke Ainsworth’s visit, Anne gradually became buried under a mountain of obligations, including her usual responsibilities, which were arduous and awkward since the queen established distance between them.

Her investigation into the maybe-threats of General Rawson and the duke progressed imperceptibly, the latter a result of being her own, solitary mission, and the former because there was either nothing going on or the general—as would befit his station—was adept at manipulation and strategic planning. Anne had a number of contacts within many of his units, but none within his core circle, and was at the point of pulling out all of her hair in frustration.

Anne took a deep breath, forcing a bite of oatmeal down her throat. She needed to mop up whatever remnants existed of her calm and poise for this afternoon, when she would be alone with the queen on duty. That was a result of terrible timing. The increased guard regimen took its toll on her and her men; James and Washington worked double shifts and needed rest; in a move of crippling stupidity and lack of foresight, Sowden damaged his armor and was taking it to be repaired; Booth was away for the week, attending a funeral; and if there was anything Anne needed less in the world than what was already pushing her to her knees, it was seven hours sandwiched between the queen and Cordingley, who had finally healed from breaking her legs in a jousting incident months ago.

Looking down at her half-finished bowl of oatmeal, Anne groaned. Even the task of eating was dreadful. She held her head in her hands, trying to collect her thoughts, running through the list of tasks ahead. Breakfast and letters, dressing, then her morning walk.

Anne grit her teeth. She hadn’t even opened her stack of sealed letters. With only a small amount of dread, she ran her knife through the first seal. If nothing else, she would drudge through the rest of the tasks for the walk, despite the light dusting of snow the previous evening.

Anne read through the first letter, shivering. The cold already wormed its way into her room and stiffened her fingers. She warmed them over a candle while she wrote her reply.

Even after her walk, the morning progressed slowly. Perhaps it was because of the cold, or the looming afternoon with the queen, or the multitude of responsibilities boxing her in. Every interaction with another human being left her drained. Her armor was itchy and stuffy, her sash wrinkled, and her boots tracked snow and dirt on the carpets no matter how diligently she cleaned them.

Anne was almost relieved when the afternoon finally fell upon her, and she could get the awkwardness over with.

Outside the queen’s study, Cordingley and James stood at rapt attention.

Cordingley was a fine knight, both in combat and wit. She and Anne came from similar backgrounds, though Anne transitioned from soldier to knight years sooner. Their personalities, however, irritated each other, as Cordingley was far too interested in things that didn’t concern her, and she thought Anne too pragmatic. Anne found it grating, and refrained from spending as much personal time with her as possible.

“How are you?” Anne said.

“Good, good. The doctor told me to take it easy on the legs, but I’m fit for service,” she said enthusiastically. “I’ll probably avoid riding if I can for another few months, though. I appreciate you giving me the afternoon off to rest,” she added.

“Yes,” Anne said absently, looking toward the study. Muffled voices filtered through the door. Anne frowned. “Who is her majesty meeting with?”

“General Rawson,” Cordingley informed her. “She requested your presence in the room when you arrived. Ideally not in the middle of the meeting, but the general, um, came early.”

Great, Anne thought. As if her day wasn’t grueling enough.

After dismissing them, Anne knocked on the door. The voices stopped, and then the queen answered, “Come in.”

When Anne entered, General Rawson and the queen stood at her desk, looking over a large, worn map of the kingdom. It was yellow and viciously marked, with holes where pins once sat and stained at the fringes with blots of ink. Half of it spilled onto the floor.

“Hello, captain,” Ann said without looking at her. “Thank you for joining us. General Rawson and I are discussing a use for his troops in the north. I, um, want your thoughts on this, so chime in when you want.”

Anne stopped near the desk and assumed her usual position. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Ann weighed down one corner of the map with her scope. “I suppose this map will have to do, general. I really should get a larger desk for these occasions,” she said, eyeing the loops of parchment on the floor. “Now I finally know why my father had all these. I doubt this one has been used for years.”

Rawson picked at one of the holes in the parchment with his fingernail. “Though it’s certainly been used,” he observed.

“Indeed,” the queen said. “Now, what is your plan?”

“My scouts identified a specific area to the northwest that could use attention,” he said. They both hunched over the map as he gestured broadly to one section. “None of the roads here have been touched for years, perhaps decades. And I have new recruits that would gain experience weeding out barbarians in the area and straightening out the local towns.”

Ann absently ran her fingers over her lips, peering closely at the map. “These towns?” she asked, pointing. When the general nodded, she said, “Yes, that looks good to me. Captain, what does your experience tell you?”

Rawson scoffed, “You’re not seriously asking—”

Ann quieted him. “Multiple perspectives never hurt, general.”

The general arched an eyebrow, falling silent. Anne herself was shocked by the queen’s sharp tone, and wondered at the source of her confidence. Ann’s cheeks tinged pink.

Anne hid her smirk behind a cough, stepping between them to look at the map. She traced her finger along the thick blue line marking the river that formed the boundary between Lydgate—Ann’s kingdom—and the Unclaimed Hills, a country ruled by at least a dozen discordant clans.

Anne said, “I do find the proximity to enemy territory worrisome. The people there are known to be violent—barbarians, marauders, pirates, that sort of thing, your majesty. As you know, our kingdom has a history of bloodshed in the area. I would be curious as to how the general plans to prioritize maintaining roads in such a dangerous environment.”

The queen nodded thoughtfully. She turned to Rawson. “And?”

“As I’ve said, it’s a good experience for newer troops,” he answered, rolling his eyes. “Since it will be a long-term expedition, the roads are an essential piece to maintaining control in the area, setting up supply lines, etcetera. Obviously.”

Ann nodded, satisfied with his answer. “Alright. I approve the venture, so long as you prioritize the roads themselves, as well as your soldiers’ safety. I understand it is inherently dangerous, but it’s certainly nothing to make any rash decisions over. I want weekly reports sent back, and any major decisions need to be ran past me.”

The general gave her a curt nod. “I’ll need to take multiple units of men, with winter setting in,” he said. “We don’t know how quickly the supply lines will be able to travel through heavy snowfall, and I need to be prepared to live off the land.”

“That’s fine,” Ann said. “Send me a list of the men and supplies you need. I’ll look it over and get back to you with any comments.”

General Rawson bowed lazily. Pausing on his way out the door, he said, “I’d like to be off as soon as possible, your majesty. If you could return my notes quickly.”

“That’s fine,” Ann repeated. As the general’s footsteps echoed down the hall, she muttered, “It will be good to have him so far away. In the event he is planning something.”

“I feel the opposite. It would be the perfect cover—he’s far away, where he will be out of sight and mind, and where you will have difficulty reaching him to bring him to justice,” Anne said, pouring over the northwestern segment of the map. “I doubt this area is important to him, besides its distance from you.”

Ann shook her head. “I still can’t justify telling him no. Our relationship is already on thin ice, and his plan fits perfectly into what I requested of him.”

“Then we have to hope I’m wrong,” Anne said, not unkindly. “I just know him too well, I can’t help but think there’s got to be some repercussions from my victory at the tourney. It’s not like him to accept something like that.”

Anne gripped the table hard, her knuckles white. She searched the map as though it held Rawson’s intentions in a code she could decipher if she only focused hard enough.

A hand lightly touched her elbow. Anne jumped, surfacing from her thoughts.

“Sorry,” Ann said. “I just want to—to thank you for coming in during the meeting. And giving your thoughts.”

“Yes,” Anne said, a lump gathering in her throat. “No problem. You seemed very confident today. Very comfortable.”

“Did I? Oh. I think your presence has that effect,” she said, looking down at her feet. “I certainly don’t feel very comfortable. But you being here…makes me feel like he can’t hurt me.”

Anne leaned back over the map, shoulders sinking. There was nothing left to be gleaned from it. No hints, devious markings, or code to Rawson’s brain, and it was foolish for her to even hope for a spark of an idea. She sighed.

The queen began to collect the bit of map hanging off the desk. She said, “Er—are you finished looking at it? It’s nearly dinnertime, and this thing can be so troublesome to put away.”

Anne immediately stood back. “Yes,” she said. “Your father had a good taste in maps. The inking on this is beautiful. It’s a shame it’s so worn.”

“That’s true, I really should get a new one made,” Ann muttered. She laughed without humor. “I’ll add it to the list of ten thousand other things I have to do.”

Anne smiled bitterly, but the queen turned away, rolling the map, cursing as she did. When Anne knelt to help her, Ann waved her back. Ann tucked the rolled-up map on its shelf with the others.

“Come on, then, captain. I’d hate to keep my aunt waiting,” she said, resigned, as though she would very much like to keep her aunt waiting. Under her breath, she muttered, “I never understood why my father chose to have his study so far from the dining room.”

Anne fell into step behind the queen. They walked in uncomfortable silence, Anne’s heavy footsteps echoing down the wide, stone hallways.

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Anne said, “How are you, your majesty?”

“I’ve been better,” she answered. Faint, gray rings hung under her eyes. “I’ve been sleeping poorly. And getting a large number of letters and requests for meetings. I don’t know why, but all these important things just seem so…worthless.”

It wasn’t until she spoke that Anne realized how much she missed the affection in Ann’s voice, like a delicate sweetness reserved for her. A rush of tenderness for the queen swept through her. Anne longed to kiss the grimace from her lips, smooth away the crease between her eyebrows, and rock her into a peaceful sleep.

“I know what you mean,” Anne said gently. “But try to be kind to yourself.”

Ann pursed her lips. In a whisper so faint Anne could barely hear, she said, “You are still so sweet to me. I don’t deserve it.”

“Is it inappropriate?”

“Quite,” she said. Then she flashed a tight-lipped smile. “But I’m grateful, nonetheless.”

They continued toward the dining room, the silence lighter. The backs of their hands brushed. The queen didn’t recoil at the touch, as Anne half-expected, and the corner of her lips twitched. In a moment of courage, her pinky finger lightly wrapped around Ann’s. The hallway was chilly, and their fingers cold, but a sudden warmth began where Ann touched her and unfurled, spreading within her like a drop of ink blooming in water.

Ann opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, shaking her head.

Anne nudged her elbow. “Hmm?”

“It’s stupid,” Ann said, looking away.

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

Ann scoffed. “I miss you already. See? It’s stupid. It’s been less than a week,” she whispered. “I feel so alone.”

“You don’t have to feel alone.”

Ann stopped walking to stare at her, eyebrows furrowed. She said, “I do. You being here, alive, safe—that’s the blessing in all this. That’s why. You being killed because of me, of something I had the power to end, right now, is unthinkable. I could never forgive myself.”

Ann pulled her hand away, clenching her fists. “I don’t want this,” she continued. “I don’t want to make myself miserable, or hurt you. I’m sorry. Er—what are you doing?”

Anne left her side, jerking open a broom closet down the hall. She stepped in, looked around, and turned to the queen, grinning. “Your majesty, something here needs the attention of a queen.”

Rolling her eyes, Ann said, “If you say, ‘it’s me,’ I’ll make Washington captain in your place, effective immediately.”

“It’s me,” Anne challenged, taking her hand and pulling her in, shutting the door behind them.

“Oh, this is—we’re not children, Anne,” Ann scolded. “My sister did this when we were kids at balls and parties!”

“But not you?” Anne said, smirking. She sat back against one of the shelves, plumping the towels and cloths like cushions. “Hmm. I suppose it makes sense. Sensible. Nervous. I’m sure you were afraid to get caught then, too.”

Ann blushed. “No. I just didn’t think I was interested.”

“Are you not now?” Anne teased.

She pulled Ann on her lap, holding her legs to keep her steady while she maneuvered brooms, mops, and buckets. Ann spun to avoid stepping on a stray tub and landed on Anne’s knee.

Ann winced. “Your armor is cold,” she informed her. “And it would be just my luck if it caught on my dress and tore the fabric. Oh, we shouldn’t be in here. We could get caught!”

Shame gnawed in Anne’s chest. Or perhaps it was grief, weighing her down and carving her out simultaneously. Sheer force of will seldom succeeded where careful planning and fate had failed. But she had to try. She would cut Ann from the grip of the universe with her sword or simply her bare hands if she could.

“Your majesty,” Anne said, taking her face in her hands. “If we must be afraid, and my life must be threatened by this wretched situation, can we not at least be happy? Is it not worthwhile even to have each other for a small number of happy days than sacrifice everything we have to feign a longer life?”

She sighed. “Anne…”

Anne pressed their foreheads together. “Please,” she begged. “This is breaking my heart.”

Ann tilted her head, meeting Anne’s lips with a slow, trepidatious kiss. Anne returned it hungrily, their cold, chapped lips turning slick and warm. The only sound in the room was the wet noises of their lips and tongues moving over each other and the occasional gasp for air. Anne felt Ann smile in the dark.

“Oh, it is my curse that you smell this good,” Ann breathed into her mouth. “It makes it so hard to think. Mmm. It just fills my head with—with buzzing.”

Anne chuckled. “What do I smell like?”

Ann tucked her face in Anne’s neck and giggled. “Oh, I don’t know how to describe it. Good. Warm. Heavy. Like sweat.”

“That sounds kind of gross, actually.”

“Mmm. No. But it’s more about...what it does to me, than what it smells like,” Ann admitted shyly.

“What does it do?”

Ann laughed. “You’re having too much fun with this. I’ve told you what it does to my head,” she said. Anne nodded. “Well it’s the same sensation in my chest, and stomach, and thighs, and...between my legs,” she mouthed at the end, blushing.

Anne hummed. “Does this mean we’re…?” she said, trailing off hopefully.

“Oh, Anne. I don’t know.”

“Then let me convince you,” Anne said. Her thumb brushed the queen’s cheek.

Her hand hiked up the skirt of Ann’s dress, running over the soft, delicate inside of her thigh. Ann’s grip on her shoulders tightened. Anne longed to shed the layers of her armor and feel the warmth of the queen’s body against her. Instead, Ann’s soft limbs pressed up against rigid, cold steel, triangles of her creamy skin mirrored in polished fragments.

“What happened to needing commitment?” Ann whispered.

“I miss you,” Anne said. “I want it, still. I’d prefer it. But this is agony, and you are unravelling me.”

“Not very poetic or knightly to go back on a statement like that,” Ann accused with a laugh.

Anne adjusted their positioning, parting the queen’s legs further. She smirked. “Someday you’ll realize I’m only human, your majesty. It might as well be today.”

Her thumb brushed her tuft of hair while her middle finger gathered wetness. Anne reveled in Ann’s slick warmth, marveling that her hand was already wet to the knuckles. She was silken and divine, the heat of her there warming Anne to her toes.

Ann tensed in her arms, gripping her elbow.

“Be gentle,” she commanded, voice already shaking.

“I’m always—”

They froze as someone on the other side jimmied the door handle. It would have been comical if not for the danger involved; Anne sitting against a shelf in an almost full suit of armor, the queen perched atop her with her legs spread, and the two of them sandwiched between cleaning supplies and stacks of aging parchment. There was no way to quickly unstick themselves into a more unassuming position without half the contents of the closet toppling down around them.

“Oh, bother,” a woman’s voice cursed from the other side. “John, do you have the key to this one? I think the extra broom’s in here.”

Her heart pounded while they waited for the jingle of keys to seal their fate. Ann groaned. Anne kissed her mouth to quiet her, whispering in a barely audible voice, “Shh, shh, everything will be alright. They’re servants, we can bribe them.”

“No,” a male voice answered, “I left it in my room. This one’s usually unlocked—some dolt must have locked it. Probably the new guy. What was his name?”

“Hell, if I remember. I think there’s another one by the kitchen, let’s check there before we lug this all the way back to the rooms…”

Their voices faded down the hallway. Anne’s heart hammered in her ears. She turned to Ann, who exhaled a long breath.

Anne tried to salvage the moment by teasing, “Should we finish...?”

“No,” Ann said sharply. “They’ll probably be back soon.”

They untangled themselves carefully. Ann leaned into her for leverage, her hand spread on her chest plate. Anne waited for the telltale tilt of her head to signal a kiss, but it never came. The air was tense with the affirmations and apologies Anne bit back. Something between them had changed.

They emerged from the closet in silence, the former heaviness returned. The queen took off without a look or a word. Anne followed from an increasing distance, her gut twisting in confusion.

Feet away from the dining room, Ann took her arm. Breathing as though she’d just run a distance, she said, “I’m so sorry, Anne. I care for you. But that can’t happen again. It can’t.”

“I don’t care,” Anne whispered. “If dying is my fate, it’s worth it. I can’t bear this for the rest of my life.”

“I care,” Ann said. Her tone grew serious. “And you will too, because I command it. And when we go in there, and we must soon, because we’re late—we have to pretend that we are fine, and everything is alright.”

Anne raised her eyebrows, staring at the queen with concern. Ann’s face was crimson, her lip trembled, and tears dribbled down her cheeks. She did not look fine.

She looked up at Anne, glaring through puffy eyes, waiting for confirmation.

“Er—yes, your majesty. I can do that,” Anne said, meeting her gaze. “I’m always alright.”

Chapter Text

During the day, the Stag’s Head Inn was a quaint escape from the cheery bustle of a small village. Children hobbled past carrying tubs of water from the river for laundry, and farmers set out displays of squash from their final harvests. All turned their heads as Anne trotted through the main street on Argus, looking perfectly out of place.

Tib’s stable boy took Argus’s reins from Anne with wide eyes, likely quite intimidated, as Argus was no doubt the finest bred horse the kid had ever touched. His stare passed over her armor and lingered on her sword. His mouth hung open, and before he thought to ask to hold the weapon, Anne stifled the notion before it could even begin.

“He needs to be fed,” Anne told him. “Whatever you feed the other horses is fine. He’s also fond of apples.”

He nodded feverishly. “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

“I’m a knight, boy. You address me as ‘ser,’” Anne corrected. Children like this one reminded Anne that she was lucky to have been born with a sharp wit and a fondness for etiquette, despite her humble birth.

“Yes, ser. Sorry, ser,” he said, looking down at his feet. “You, um, said feeding him h-hay is fine? Or just apples? Ser.”

“Whatever you feed the other horses is fine,” she repeated.

Anne pursed her lips. She watched him walk away with her stallion, wondering that the world functioned at all under the thumb of folks that hired people like him. She made a note to talk to Tib about the child, and whether she knew he was inept when she hired him, or had simply made a mistake.

Anne entered, her ears immediately bombarded by Tib’s signature drawl, shouting from across the room. Compounded with the events of the last week, it was only a matter of time before a headache settled permanently between her eyes.

“Oooh, the captain of the kingsguard herself, in the light of day, and wearing such decadent armor! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Tib said with a grin. And then she paled. “Unless this is, ah, in an official capacity? Whoever sent you here, I regret to tell you, is a liar and a scoundrel.”

Anne pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, Tib. Well, er, yes. But it’s not about you,” she said.

Tib gave her a strange look as she took a seat at the bar. “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you in your fancy guard-knight armor. Kind of intimidating, to be honest.”

“Yes,” Anne said dismissively. “That’s why I don’t typically wear them here. But, as I said, I’m here on the queen’s business today. To ask you about…some of your patrons.”

“Color me intrigued,” she said, leaning on the bar. She flashed Anne a wicked grin and added, “I should warn you though, I do have a degree of bar owner/patron confidentiality. I would lose business if some of my patrons knew I’d rat them out to the queen’s people. You understand.”

“I understand that if you don’t, I have the ability to arrest you and shut down your establishment for knowingly hosting criminal activity and failing to report such to your town guard,” Anne threatened, meeting her eyes. “You understand, of course.”

“Oh,” Tib sucked her teeth. “Annie is a little storm cloud today. What’s gotten under your skin? It’s the girl, isn’t it?”

Anne ignored her. “The patrons in question were present the same night I was, at the same time. They sat there,” Anne said, pointing to a table. She walked over to it, gesturing wildly with her hands while she spoke. “It’s a good distance from the bar, but the seats they were sitting in are at the perfect angle for you to see clearly from behind the counter. I’m wondering if you’re familiar with these men, if you know them, or know anything about them whatsoever.”

“Ah,” Tib said, frowning. “Them. Yeah, they’re creepy.”

“And?” Anne pressed.

“What do you mean ‘and?’ They’re creepy. That’s all I know about them. Despite my lovely face, my patrons don’t exactly divulge their latest criminal act when ordering a drink.”

Anne rolled her eyes. She said, “Do they come often? What about them makes them creepy? How long do they stay? Do other patrons talk about them? What business could they possibly have with a duke?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Not very often, maybe once a month? One’s missing his left eye. No, my left, his right, but he doesn’t have the manners to cover it,” Tib said, shuddering. “Creepy. The other one just has this air about him, nothing physical, more of a feeling. It’s, um—what’s another word for ‘creepy?’”

“Sinister,” Anne offered.

Tib pointed a finger at her. “That’s the one. They order a drink to take up tablespace, so I can’t kick them out, but they don’t drink a lick. I have to dump it out every time. And that’s the extent of what I know about them.”

“That can’t be all,” Anne plead. She grit her teeth, biting back frustration. Tib aided her to the best of her ability, she reminded herself. No sense taking it out on her.

Tib leaned over the counter, getting close. She said quietly, “I think you need a drink, little storm cloud. What do you say?”

Anne scoffed. “No. I need to have a straight mind. I need to figure out what all this ridiculousness is about.” She put her face in her hands. “I just want one less thing on my plate.”

“That’s what I’m suggesting. A drink to straighten your mind,” Tib said. “If I know you, something big is stressing you out. You’re saying things that don’t make sense. A duke? Patronizing my humble establishment?” She fanned herself.

Anne waved her hand in frustration. She said, “I’m fine, Tib. I’m alright.”

“Did you hear about the knight who lost her left arm and leg in a joust?” Tib asked, growing serious. She poured a drink while she spoke and slid it across the counter.

“No?”

“She’s also all right,” Tib deadpanned. “Now, tell me what’s actually going on.”

Anne hated giving her the satisfaction of being right. With a grimace, she said, “The girl. I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other anymore. Or perhaps we will? I’m not sure. She’s confused. Her mind is everywhere, all at once.”

“This sounds more like a problem in my arsenal,” she said. “Have you tried the timeless Anne Lister method of telling her she’s wrong to be confused?”

“Yes,” Anne exclaimed. “Though I wouldn’t word it like that. I don’t understand how she can be confronted with a problem, choose a solution, and not stick to it, instead of going back and forth on her decision. It would be less painful for the both of us.”

“Of course you wouldn’t word it like that,” Tib said, cackling. “How exactly did you word it? Out of curiosity.”

Anne took a drink. “There weren’t a lot of words,” she admitted into the glass, flushing.

Tib shook her head. “Amazing. And you truly don’t see the problem here?”

“You’ve framed the problem quite unfairly,” Anne accused. “We had an…encounter. I initiated it, but she seemed just as keen. Eager, even. I thought we worked out the difficulty, and then one little problem comes up and—” Anne snapped her fingers “—she’s cold again.”

“What’s the problem? The family?” Tib said. She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the family name?”

Anne shook her head, taking another drink. “No. And don’t try guessing, I won’t tell you either way.”

“I can be quite an investigator when I want to be, Ser Lister. I’ll figure this out,” Tib threatened.

“Hmm. Then put those skills to use and help me figure out what kind of business a duke would have with these men,” Anne said, wetting her lips with another sip.

“And what is the importance of knowing the duke’s business, if I may ask?”

“You may not.”

Tib groaned. “So full of secrets. Remember when we had no secrets at all, down to the marks on our bodies?” Tib said wistfully. She leaned on her fist, eyes sweeping the length of Anne’s body. “Hmm. How many scars do you have now that I don’t know about?”

“You always find a way to make me wish I didn’t remember,” Anne said, rolling her eyes.

“Ah. Well. A girl has to try.”

Another patron took a seat at the opposite end of the bar and ordered lunch. After flashing her a grin, Tib left Anne to herself. Anne watched her prepare the meal and drink, dry glasses with a dirty rag, and hurl playful insults at other patrons. When Tib caught them eyeing Anne nervously, she leaned close to tell them, “That’s my new guard, so you behave yourself, understand?”

Anne hid her chuckle in her glass. Life with Tib might have been easy, if she’d chosen it. Except that she was too wild, too harsh, and matched Anne’s domineering personality with frightening enthusiasm.

Ann, despite the vision of herself as a bundle of anxieties and her responsibilities as queen, was a breath of cool, calm air for Anne. Beneath her fragility lay strength, more survival mechanism than facade. Although Anne treated her with delicate reverence, she loved peeling back Ann’s insecurities and watching her bloom. The girl simply needed someone who would extend a hand when she fell and couldn’t bear to stand.

Anne returned to the castle no further in her investigation of the duke’s activities, but her shoulders lighter nonetheless. While she ate her dinner—a small, warm loaf of bread, buttered potatoes, and a slab of venison—she finished reading and replying to the stack of letters built up at her desk.

Hidden at the bottom of the stack was a battered letter with her family seal. Anne tore it open, immediately recognizing her sister’s signature scrawl. Marian learning to read and write was one of Anne’s requirements for passing ownership of the family farm to her, but the damn girl struggled to write clearly, her letters smushed together like a child’s. Anne was pleasantly surprised to find she remembered to use the seal.

Well, Anne thought, perhaps the farm won’t burn down without her there after all.

Decoding Marian’s writing was a task in itself. The first page was mostly an update on their financial situation and health. Anne was relieved to hear her Aunt Anne was doing well, as she was elderly and the winters grew more and more harsh. The second and third pages were updates on the town drama, which Marian was far too invested in, and Anne skimmed with great disinterest.

It was the final line that caught Anne’s attention: And we know you’ve been quite busy since the king’s death, but it’s been nearly four years since we’ve last seen you, and it would do father and Aunt Anne good, as they worry about you constantly.

Anne stopped chewing to frown. Four years? It can’t have been that long.

She crawled into bed, puzzled, wondering how time could have slipped away from her. Four years. Anne resolved to visit them soon, once the trouble with General Rawson and Duke Ainsworth was resolved. It would do her good to separate herself from the queen, to clear her mind. Sleep found her hours after she tucked herself in.

Seconds after her eyes fell shut, Anne jerked awake, someone pounding on her door.

“Captain,” Washington said frantically, “It’s an emergency. The queen—she—she’s locked in, there’s screaming, somethings wrong—”

Anne swung the door open, sword in her hand, her heart thumping furiously in her chest. “Show me.”

***

Ann’s terrors worsened in the week since she distanced herself from the captain. Invisible storms tortured her nightly. Like clockwork, Ann could predict the precise moment the first flash of lightning struck outside, the shape of its bolt, and the rhythm of the thick, heavy drops of rain against the windows.

And then the visions would come, a symptom of the pounding rain and booming thunder, living and reliving that terrible night. Unlike the storms, they were unpredictable, beginning in different points of her memory, triggering at different intervals in the storm.

Keeping it at bay was like stopping an oncoming wave in the ocean with only her body and outstretched arms—it crashed through her with tremendous force, cracking her bones, filling her lungs, swallowing her whole. There was nothing she could do except cower in its wake, curling up under her covers, hugging herself, becoming as small as possible.

Instead of hiding from it, Ann’s goal was to weather it. She imagined herself like a tiny crustacean, picked up by a wave unimaginably large, riding its surface in the chaos, her fragile shell whole, intact, keeping her safe.

Where before the memories she relived were close to the truth, her visions now shifted and morphed nightly. Memories she once thought solid and true shuddered into new versions; details revealed themselves like shadows unfurling in the dark, closed doors now opened, and muffled voices were suddenly crisp.

Under the covers of her bed, Ann squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her face into the pillow so no light could reach her. A clap of thunder shook the room, and she screamed into the pillow, squeezing herself harder, nails digging into her flesh. She waited for the vision to come.

When it struck her, the rain was gentler than it had ever been. She relaxed in the bed, spinning to look. It was a soft downpour, more shower than storm, turning the grass outside a vibrant green in the dark. From the bed, she heard the echo of Anne’s footsteps in the hallway as though her ear was pressed to the closed door, and the voices of her and the manservant, talking feverishly.

From the end of the hallway, the manservant’s sobs overpowered the rain. His voice trembled when he said, “I didn’t do it, ser, I swear.”

“Then what did you see?” Anne growled. Her voice was so strong. She was livid, splitting the air with her fury. Ann wondered how she never heard it in her visions before.

“N-nothing! The king was at the window. It looked like he was alone—and—and th-then—" He cried in time with a crack of thunder, the accompanying flash of lightning imprinting itself on Ann’s vision.

“And then?” Anne pressed.

“There was a dagger in his own hand,” the servant whispered, as clearly as if his lips were at her ear. How could Ann hear him from so far away? “And b-b-blood everywhere.”

She saw Anne’s frown in her mind’s eye, and her trembling fist around the hilt of her sword. “Are you suggesting the king killed both himself and the queen? That isn’t possible.”

“N-no!” the servant cried. “Only th-that he held it in his hand. I d-don’t know, maybe he picked it up, o-or—”

“There was no sign of a break in,” Anne muttered to herself. She was as loud and clear as if she stood next to Ann, talking to her. “No broken windows. The servants’ entrance was barred from the room’s side. There were guards outside the door. This doesn’t make sense.”

As they approached Ann’s room, a sense of dread bloomed in Ann’s gut and overwhelmed her. She rushed to the door to lock it.

“This isn’t real,” she said to herself. “It’s a dream. A memory. A vision. None of the things they said are true.”

“I’m sorry, Anne,” Ann whispered to the door. “Whatever this is, I want it to come. I want to see it. Maybe then this will all end.”

Anne’s fist pounded on the door. “Your grace!” she shouted. “Please, open the door. You’re in danger.” Her voice welled with concern.

“I can’t,” Ann replied softly. “It’s a vision. It isn’t real. You are a memory.”

Ann ached to open it and feel the warmth and safety of her embrace. Instead, she turned and sat with her back against the door, hugging her knees, waiting.

Outside, the rain lifted enough that a sliver of the moon peeked through, brushing only the most reflective surfaces with light. Ann exhaled, wondering if her vision would end with the storm. After a few moments, Anne’s pounding and the servant’s sobbing faded. Relief lifted her shoulders and filled her lungs with air.

Ann stood to look out the window at the sky, wondering if the storm was truly gone. It never ended so quickly or abruptly before. It had never been so soft. What did she do this time to control it? Could she do it again, and these terrors might finally end for good?

In the trees outside, a figure unfolded from the long, reaching shadows. Its eyes reflected the faint light of the moon like an animal, two white discs bobbing in the air as it approached her. Ann froze. It clung to the rim of darkness, but moved on two legs, like a person. She stepped back as it neared the window, and took a breath.

Ann trembled with fear. Was it the assassin that killed her parents, finally revealing themselves? Had Captain Lister only beaten them by a matter of seconds on that fateful night? Human eyes don’t reflect like that. Did that mean it was something else, a creature of terror, invented by her mind as she awaited what she thought was her would-be fate?

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Taking in a shaking breath, Ann met the figure at the window. When she saw what it was, she laughed with relief.

While she laughed, her reflection smiled.

***

Anne raced to the queen’s quarters alongside Washington in nothing but her underclothes and the sword in her hand. Out of breath, Washington filled her in as they ran.

“She’s locked the door. Won’t let us in—there was screaming, then muttering, and now silence,” he sputtered. “James is doing everything he can. That door isn’t meant to be kicked open, ser, it’s too heavy, and the key—well, she’s barred the door, too.”

“Did she say why?” Anne growled.

Washington said, “No, she just apologized.”

“Has anyone tried to reach her through the servants’ entrance?”

“No, ser. It was still locked, and you’re the only one with a key.”

Anne nodded. “I’ll try that, then. Help James get through that door, and don’t tell her I’m coming. She may have been…compromised, and is at the mercy of a captor.”

Anne did not allow worry to enfold her. As in a battle or a duel, she tucked those feelings away.

Travelling through the chain of locked doors to reach the queen was long and arduous. She blew out the candle during the last portion, moving slowly, trailing her hand along the walls for balance, crouching to avoid the low-hanging wooden beams, and used her finger to find the keyholes. The final keyhole to the queen’s room projected a beam of soft, white light in the dark. Anne knelt and peered through it.

On the other side, the queen was dressed in her nightgown, staring out the window. She appeared to be alone, muttering to herself, talking too fast for Anne to understand. Washington and James called to the queen from the door, but she either ignored or didn’t hear them. Anne unsheathed her sword, fit the key in the hole, and pushed open the door.

Ann spun at the noise. A shape moved behind her, and Anne’s heart leapt to her throat.

A human-sized shadow unfolded from the darkness of the queen’s room. It had Ann’s face and hair, but blurry, twisted, and wearing a mirthful expression Anne had never seen the queen make. It gripped a dagger in its fist and charged her. Ann shrieked.

The figure shimmered as it crossed the room. Anne lunged at it, swinging her sword down upon it. Her blade tugged on the specter like water or mist, but it snapped back to its original form, unhurt. It took advantage of her shock and swung at her. Anne was too slow, and the blade sliced her skin open from her collarbone to the edge of her shoulder.

Anne tucked the pain away before it reached her lips. She cursed her lack of armor, but knew if she had delayed her arrival, the queen might already be dead. Blood soaked her tunic. Her stomach lurched. By her estimation, she didn’t have long before blood loss got the best of her. How could she kill something that couldn’t be touched?

It circled her, the blade of its weapon glimmering in the dark. Anne turned with it, watching its slow, loping movement. Its ethereal fingers gripped the weapon, which was somehow as real as the sword in Anne’s hands. An idea took hold of her.

Allowing instinct to guide her, Anne struck the thing hard and quick, each attack flowing into the next. Her sword slammed against its dagger, and on the third strike, knocked the dagger out of its hand. It clattered to the floor near the queen.

“The knife, Ann!” she shouted, holding out her hand.

Fear etched on her face, Ann tossed the dagger. Anne caught it by the handle, and, in a glimmering flash, struck the phantom with its own blade. It shrieked with pain and then dissipated, bubbling back into the air in large, thick globs.

The threat was gone. Anne allowed herself to breathe, then turned to the queen, laying the weapons on the floor.

“You could see it,” Ann whispered as Anne knelt beside her. The blood drained from her face. “Th-that means it was—it—it—"

While she stuttered, Anne ran her hands over the queen’s body, checking to see if she was hurt. The only cut was one on her palm from gripping the dagger, and crescent-shaped nicks on her arms from her own nails. She longed to gather the queen in her arms and smooth away her trembling.

Ann pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “Oh, Anne. I don’t deserve you. You always come,” she breathed, kissing her between each word. They were chaste things, lovely, little bursts of affection Ann couldn’t bother herself to contain. “You always find me. You always reach me.”

Ann gripped the sleeve of her shirt, holding her there. Anne held her gaze, unsure of what was appropriate. She tucked a lock of hair behind Ann’s ear with a finger and asked, “How did it get in, your majesty?”

“It j-just walked through,” she said. A memory shook her body. “Like a spirit. I thought it was m-my reflection at first. That everything else was just a trick of the light. You could see it,” she repeated, aghast.

Anne frowned. “Yes.”

“What did you see?”

“A spirit, as you said. A human-shaped form, like a shadow,” Anne said, troubled. “Is this related to your visions? Or coincidence?”

Ann’s lip trembled. “I-I don’t know. Nothing in my visions has ever been like that. Nothing has ever b-been real to someone else. It didn’t storm earlier, right?”

“No, there was no storm,” Anne said, lost in thought.

“And it was so strange. I wondered if it was over for good. If I was better, somehow,” she said, hugging herself tightly.

Anne nodded, distracted by the singing pain where the thing struck her. She pushed herself against the wall, and placed her hand over the wound, putting as much pressure as she could. Her limbs were weak and trembling.

“Your majesty? Captain?” Washington shouted through the door.

Ann’s eyes widened when she realized what was happening. She blinked, surfacing from shock, and rushed to the door. She unlocked it and sputtered, “We need a doctor. Immediately. Captain Lister is hurt.”

“Of course,” he said. “Should we…?”

“Yes. And run,” Ann said, voice shaking. “Th-there’s a lot of blood.”

She closed the door again, rushing back to Anne. She gently swatted Anne’s hands away from her wound and said, “Let me.” Her small, delicate fingers pressed against Anne’s skin. Apologies poured from her like tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’ve been stupid. This is all my fault, everything, I’m so, so sorry.”

“You needn’t be,” Anne said, mustering a smile. “This is my purpose, your majesty. Any of my men would have done the same.”

Ann’s face fell. “Yes,” she said. “I know. I’m just livid at myself for having ruined everything on top of it all. If y-you had d-died, I don’t know if I could ever f-forgive m-myself...”

The queen stared at Anne, horrified, the conflict plain on her face. Anne touched her lightly, her fingertips tracing the soft planes of her cheeks and nose.

“You are so sweet and good. But you place so much pressure upon yourself, Ann,” Anne whispered. At hearing her own name, Ann’s expression softened. Anne took that as a sign to keep going. “Trust the people you care about to be honest with you. If ever you charge them to do something out of their ability, or that is too dangerous, they will tell you.”

Ann shook with tears, leaning on Anne as she did, her hands placing too much pressure on the wound. Anne stifled a yelp of pain in the crook of her free arm.

Ann pressed a wet, salty kiss to her cheek. “I love you,” Ann confessed. “Selfishly. Despite the danger, my station, and your oaths. It is agony to think that you or I could ever feel affection for anyone else.”

Anne gripped her wrist. “Then don’t. Make a commitment to me.”

“How, Anne? Your oaths are just as sacred.”

“I am already sworn to you. I would die for you a thousand times over, and not just because of my oaths. All I’m asking for—all I want—is to know you will never commit yourself to anyone else.”

“Anne, I—I need time. Will you give me time to figure it out?”

Anne bit her lips. “Yes,” she said unwillingly. “Just—don’t push me out again. Please.”

“I won’t,” Ann promised, and kissed her.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of Washington and the doctor. They swarmed Anne with liquor, needles, bandages, and feverish questions. Anne only had eyes for the queen, who accepted a blanket from James, and talked softly with him in the corner. Every once in a while, her eyes flickered over to Anne, knit with concern.

Each time, Anne surfaced from the pain to grin at her, as if to say, Everything will be alright.

Chapter Text

Since becoming queen, Ann often wished she had a second face to wear as a disguise. Or a potion of invisibility. Anything that would make it so the attention of a room didn’t warp around her the moment she entered it, and have people falling over themselves to do the tiniest things for her. She also often wished she were someone else entirely—but that was another matter.

When Ann stood in the doorway of the Knight’s Lodge, the knights of the kingsguard leaping to assist her, even though this was their place of respite, she wistfully recalled the night Anne whisked her away to the Stag’s Head Inn. A place where no one knew her face, where she was invisible, comfortable, allowed to decide for herself what to be.

Cordingley jumped to attention. She was in a state of disarray, her clothes and face stained with mud, as though she had just come from the training ring outside.

Clearing her throat, she asked, “Er—is there something you needed, your majesty? We’re, um, I’m sorry for—for the mess.”

Ann looked around, taking it all in. The Knight’s Lodge was a two-floor corner of the castle where the kingsguard lived. It was set up like soldiers’ barracks, with its own kitchen, set of servants, and living space. The servants followed Cordingley as she walked, scrubbing away her muddy footprints on the floor. James stood at attention by one of the long tables, his lunch half eaten.

“There’s no need to help me with anything,” Ann insisted. “Please, return to your meal, James. I just wanted to—to check on Captain Lister. Is she all right?”

“Oh, yes. I think so. The doctor said there’s no infection, just a few day’s rest and she’ll be up again,” Cordingley said, eyeing Ann curiously.

Ann flushed, remembering the flowers tucked under her arm. “Good. I thought these might brighten her room while she waits. I stole them from the Royal Greenhouse,” she admitted, flashing a shy smile. “Where did you say she was?”

Cordingley blinked. “Her room, I think, your majesty. Upstairs, at the far end. Do you want me to show you where it is?”

“No, I think I’ve got the idea,” Ann said.

Ann turned, and a servant nearly crashed into her, flying down the stairs.

“Oh! S-sorry, ser—” the servant stuttered, then stared up at her with wide eyes, red and swollen with tears. “Your majesty, I—I—” She fell to the floor in a low bow, her forehead touching the wood. “I am so sorry.”

“Is everything alright?” Ann asked, concerned. “Please, stand. Why are you crying?”

The servant obeyed, wiping her eyes as she stood. She folded her hands in front of her apron, staring at the floor. “Um, it’s nothing, your majesty. C-Captain Lister is—I tried to get her to stay in bed, as the doctor prescribed, b-but she became angry, and t-t-told me to leave…”

“The captain has had a rough time of it lately. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Ann assured her. She brandished the flowers, letting the servant smell them. She added, “I was just about to give her these. Hopefully that will put her in a better mood.”

“I hope so, your majesty,” she said. She opened her mouth again, then closed it, grimacing.

Ann frowned. “Was there something else?”

“Oh, no, your majesty,” she said frantically. “Well, it’s just. No one ever told me you were so nice.”

Ann smiled. “I suppose that kind of thing doesn’t matter to most people. I think the world would be better if people were kinder, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed, blushing.

“Wish me luck,” Ann said. “If the captain is in a mood, gods help us all.”

“Good luck, your majesty.”

Ann smiled to herself as the servant rushed away, bursting through the kitchen doors down the hall. Cordingley watched the interaction with her eyebrows raised, but busied herself when Ann turned, paging through a stack of letters on a table. Ann breathed in the quiet sounds of each person going about their day; James’s fork scraped the plate, servants giggled excitedly in the kitchen, Washington polished a gauntlet, and Cordingley tore the seal of a letter. All occurred despite Ann’s presence, and raised her spirits as she ascended the stairs to Anne.

She knocked gently on Anne’s door.

“It better be an emergency,” Anne shouted from the other side. A thud, the sound of metal clattering on wood, and muffled swearing followed. “Or a summons from the queen herself. Anything else—”

“This is she,” Ann teased. She straightened the bouquet while Anne fumbled with the lock.

When Anne opened the door, Ann bit back a laugh. The captain wore a tired and pained expression, her hair loose and swept over her good shoulder. Her tunic was only half on, the left arm hanging loose and empty. She held a belt in one hand and her sword in the other, as though in the process of tying it around her waist had knotted it too loosely and slipped from her hips.

“Going somewhere?” Ann asked.

“Your majesty,” Anne said, aghast. “Why are you here?”

“To keep you company,” she said brightly, presenting her with the flowers. “And to cheer up your room. Evidently, I’ve caught you just in time.”

“I was going to the library,” Anne said, distracted. She stared at the bouquet. “Those are pretty, but, um, my hands are full.”

“Against the doctor’s recommendation? I don’t think so,” Ann said, frowning.

Anne chuckled. “I’m perfectly fine, Ann. There’s no reason I need to be confined to this godsforsaken bed all day.”

“You can’t even get dressed!”

“I don’t need to be able to get dressed to read,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Ann huffed. “Then have servants deliver the books. What if your stitches tear and you’re all by yourself and you bleed out in that dark, lonely building? It would be just like you to reach for a book too high, or put too much weight on that arm.”

Ann turned and called a passing servant, who awaited her request with an awed expression.

“I need you to go to the Royal Library and collect as many books as you can carry for the captain,” she said. “What subjects would you like, Anne?”

Anne waved a hand. “Really, this isn’t necessary. I’m quite certain I’ll be fine, Ann.”

Ann turned back to the servant. Flustered, she said, “Choose the books at your whim, then, and have the librarian check that the captain hasn’t taken them before.”

“Going to the library is about the experience, Ann, not just reading itself,” Anne protested. “I really would much rather go myself, take it all in, and choose the books from their shelves. Some of them have multiple copies, and there’s always one that’s been stained with food, or written on, or some other nonsense.” Anne wrinkled her nose.

“Captain Lister,” Ann began, raising her eyebrows. “By the oaths you’ve sworn to me and my father, return to your bed immediately, and do not leave it until a doctor has given you permission to do so. You are dismissed,” she added to the servant, who dashed away.

“You can’t invoke oaths for bedrest!” Anne protested.

Ann pursed her lips. “I certainly can, when the health and livelihood of the captain of my guard is at risk.”

Anne scoffed, but obeyed, inviting Ann into her room.

The captain’s quarters were far more modest than Ann expected for someone of Anne’s station. Her bed was a small straw mattress on a wooden frame. Ann smiled when she noticed the last remnants of a candle oozing atop the headboard, and pictured Anne propped up on a pillow, reading late into the night. Anne’s desk held meticulously organized stacks of letters, notes, and other documents, and was absent of any personal effects aside from a writing kit.

Ann’s heart jumped when she noticed the dagger from the night before laying across the chair. The weapon the spirit held. The weapon that almost succeeded in killing them both.

“What are you doing with that?” she whispered.

Anne turned to look at it. “Oh,” she said, as if she’d forgotten it was there. “That’s why I wanted to go to the library. To study this curious little artifact.”

Anne picked it up, eyes alight. It was a fearsome weapon. The handle was the shape of a curling snake. Its head formed the pommel, which held between the fangs an unnatural, blood-red ruby. The blade itself was folded steel, wire-thin shapes carved into the sides.

“They’re runes, aren’t they?” Ann whispered. “The figures on the blade.”

Anne sucked her teeth, unsure. “That’s one theory. A rather uncomfortable one for me, as, if it were true, that would mean magic is also real. Although I’ve never noticed anything strange about my sword. If these markings are runes, I’m not convinced that they were responsible for the weapon being able to kill the thing, since my sword couldn’t.”

“The ghost wasn’t enough to convince you?” Ann said.

The memory of her own face staring back at her sent a shiver down Ann’s spine. It looked so real—and it was, she reminded herself. She recalled the way it walked through the stone walls, sucking the laughter from her lungs. The dagger materialized before her, winking into existence in the ghost’s fist, as if formed from the air itself.

“We don’t know what it was,” Anne said, turning the weapon in her hand like it would reveal its mysteries if she looked hard enough. “We don’t know if it was magic, or unnatural, or something else.”

“What if it was me, and it manifested from my vision?” Ann wondered aloud, terror sinking in. “What if it happens again?”

Anne touched her cheek, consoling her. She said, “I doubt it. You said yourself, nothing in your visions has ever manifested for anyone else. As for it happening again, someone will be in your room nightly, until we can uncover what actually happened. There has to be a more reasonable explanation than magic. Neither of us was in our right mind.”

“No, I suppose not,” Ann agreed.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted them. Anne bristled. Ann shot her a glare, then called, “Yes?”

The door cracked open. The servant that nearly crashed into Ann stepped in, a large bowl of steaming water in her arms.

She said, “It’s, um, time to dress your bandages, ser. If you, um, want, or I could come back later?”

Ann stood, taking the bowl from her. “I’ve got it,” she said, smiling. “The captain and I will get to it soon.”

“Are—are you sure, your majesty?” the servant said, bewildered, looking between them.

“Of course. The captain is my friend, and I’ll be keeping her company for the day. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?”

“Okay,” the servant said, bowing. “Thank you, your majesty.”

The door clicked shut. Ann set the bowl on the nightstand, squeezed the rag, then directed Anne to sit at the edge of the bed.

“The tunic has to come off,” Ann commanded.

Anne groaned. “It took me so long to get it on. This arm is useless, I can barely lift my hand over my waist without irritating the wound.”

The knight in front of Ann was the most vulnerable she had ever seen her. Yet Ann’s breath still caught at the sharp cut of her jaw, her loose, unruly hair imprinted with the waves of her last braid, and the rough, worn clothes that hinted at her humble beginnings. Even wilted, she was captivating.

Ann leaned forward to loosen the already undone ties at the collar with her finger. Her fingertip brushed Anne’s neck and collarbone. A trickle of goosebumps flared at her touch. Anne smiled for the first time that day.

“You’d make a terrible ladies’ maid, you know. Going this slow,” she teased.

“You’re pretty,” Ann confessed. “And I don’t have your self-control.”

“Hmm. That wasn’t a complaint,” Anne said, smirking.

Ann giggled, playing with the fringes of the tunic. ‘Nervous’ couldn’t begin to describe the thrill surging through her. It was absurd to feel that way about something as simple as changing bandages. She felt too giddy, like a child, holding her breath while she eased the garment over Anne’s head.

Ann had only ever seen paintings of nude bodies. Soft pink or brown shapes layered over each other, alight with a blush of affection or expressions of tenderness. She expected smooth skin, soft lines, and hints on Anne’s stomach and chest of the hard, round muscles she saw when Anne wrestled.

Ann’s lips parted as her eyes ran over the captain’s body. She looked nothing like the paintings Ann recalled. Her skin was rugged: white and red lines peppered her flesh, small bruises littered her hips and back from blunted swords, and the bandage stretched from her collarbone to her shoulder, patches crimson with dried blood.

Without thinking, Ann reached out to her.

Under Ann’s touch, Anne’s abdomen was hard as smooth stones, and her skin nicked with scars years healed. There was a sharpness to her that evoked the hardships of her youth as a soldier. Hers was a body that ate regular, full meals, yet remembered the greedy yearning of starvation. Cold winters had warmed her blood while their winds effaced her skin. All of this was written on her flesh, for anyone to read.

“Not as pretty as you thought,” Anne said, watching her. Not unkindly, she added, “No one’s ever called me that before and meant it.”

A painting took shape behind Ann’s eyelids. Layers of red, tan, purple, and white, crisscrossing each other in sharp, thin lines. A warm blush over it all, and the eyes and hair a matching deep, earthy brown. The painting wouldn’t be an encapsulation of Anne’s essence—nothing could—but a fragment of her aspect, isolated; her body was something that bore her history so visibly one could never doubt its importance.

“You’re beautiful,” Ann said reverently.

Ann pressed her lips to each mark. Some were raised, some indented, some a discoloration of flesh. Each kiss was a wish that the captain had never known their pain at all.

Anne watched her, an astonished smile touching her eyes. She said, “You are so sweet. The poet in me wants to say, ‘every cut was worth it for the touch of your lips on the scar.’ But that would be a bit much, wouldn’t it?”

Ann slapped her playfully. “And untrue!”

The captain only smiled. “We should change the bandage soon, darling. I’m getting cold.”

From her waist to her neck, Anne’s skin prickled with goosebumps. Ann glanced at the dwindling fire behind them. Small flames licked blackened, skeletal logs. With a small “oh!” Ann rushed to add wood, poking the fire until flames grew again.

“Sorry,” Ann said, blushing. “That’s what I get for dismissing the servant, isn’t it? Someone has to keep the fire going.”

After wiping her hands on the front of her dress, Ann set to work peeling away the bandage. She winced when she saw the cut, sewn together with a thick thread. To clear away the dried blood, she dabbed the tender flesh around the wound with a warm, wet cloth. Anne closed her eyes while she worked. At first Ann smiled, pleased that the captain was able to relax. Then she noticed her jaw twitch, subtle but constant, each time the rag rubbed her skin.

Anne cleaned the wound as fast and delicately as she could. She wrapped a new, clean bandage, tying it at the shoulder in a voluminous bow.

“Done,” she declared, and Anne opened her eyes.

Anne looked at her shoulder and laughed. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

Ann flushed, embarrassed. “I could tie it in a regular knot, if you want. If it’s too embarrassing, or feminine, or—”

“If someone chooses to make fun of me for it, they’ll be chastising the handiwork of the queen herself. I’d rather be me, wearing it proudly. Don’t you agree?” Anne said, grin widening.

They shared a smile. Ann leaned in, asking for a kiss. Anne obliged, teasing her with a soft, chaste kiss, then nipping Ann’s top lip and brushing their tongues together. Her thumb brushed the tiny strands of hair at the back of Anne’s neck. They kissed until Ann’s lips buzzed, numb and wet.

“I brought something to do, if you want,” Ann said, pulling away.

She withdrew a folded, beat-up chessboard and leather bag of stone pieces. It was her brother’s set from when he was a child. He had carried it with him everywhere, to meetings with their father in faraway kingdoms, into the woods when they played, and into her room, late at night, when one of them had a nightmare and needed company.

“Oh, gods,” Anne cursed. “It’s not enough that I’ve been sliced open, you have to kick a woman while she’s down?”

Ann playfully tapped her chin with a finger. “Who was it that said, ‘there’s more honor in a graceful loss than in any victory?’”

“It can’t have been me,” Anne grumbled. “I’m a terrible loser.”

They played for hours. Anne was fiercely competitive. Ann marveled at how well the captain was able to acknowledge and stifle her frustration after losing, tucking it away to give her all during the next game. That Anne was more familiar with card games became evident toward the latter half of the afternoon, when she devolved into bluffing and mind games—strategies that didn’t translate well into chess.

“Put your hand up my skirt all you like, captain, you’ve already made the move that lost you the game,” Ann teased. The index finger tracing circles on the inside of her thigh certainly would have distracted her from any other activity, but in this, Ann was determined to prove her skill.

Anne scoffed. “I’ll take you to play cards sometime, your majesty, and we’ll see how cocky you get then.”

Ann allowed her excitement to reach her face. “Really?” she asked. “You’ll take me to the village again?”

Anne eyed her curiously, apparently not expecting that response. Ann bounced with enthusiasm, imagining the two of them sitting at one of the inn’s large, heavy wooden tables, playing cards with strangers as curious and kind as the man who had played chess with her while she waited for Anne. She would drink less this time, of course, in an effort to not be reduced to a drunken fool.

“If you want. Once this Ainsworth, Rawson, and ghost business is resolved,” Anne said. Being reminded of those troubles deflated the captain. She sunk back in her bed, her expression somber. Anne added softly, “If you still want me by then. I’ll look like an old woman, every hair on my head gray and my face forever scowling if this lasts much longer.”

“Oh, Anne. I’ll want you always,” Ann said, blushing.

“Hmm. You say that now,” Anne said bitterly.

Ann ignored the comment, choosing not to begin that conversation. The one she was dreading. The one she had to figure out how to bring up to her advisors and family, who saw her lack of a husband not only as disappointing, but exceedingly stupid. No help, no alliances, no heirs—all arguments her family would make to beat her into submission. And it would work, because they would be right.

“What?” Anne said sharply.

Ann jumped, staring at her with wide eyes before realizing that Anne was talking to someone on the other side of the door.

“Dinner, for your m-majesty and Captain Lister,” a meek voice called.

Ann opened the door, brightly greeting the servant. She took the tray, which held two steaming bowls of soup, a large loaf of bread, and a creamy dab of butter. After setting it down at the foot of the bed, Ann balanced one of the bowls in her lap.

Ann slapped Anne’s hand as she reached for the other bowl.

“No,” Ann said. “You’re hurt.”

The captain laughed. “I have one free, very capable hand, you know,” Anne reminded her.

Ann grinned mischievously. “I do. But I’m committing fully to my role as your caretaker,” she said.

“Then know if anyone else did this, I’d be in such a poor mood it would send them rushing downstairs begging to be relieved of the job,” Anne informed her. “But because it’s you, and because you’re the queen, I’ll suffer it with minimal complaint.”

“This seems like complaining,” Ann said, laughing.

“I said ‘minimal.’ It’s so ludicrous that I have to complain at least a little. Being fed like a child,” Anne said, clicking her tongue. “It’s a little cut. I’ll have full movement of my arm back in a few short days.”

“Mhmm,” she agreed, grinning.

Ann dipped the spoon in the bowl. It was a vegetable barley soup with a spicy broth. Bubbles dotted its surface. Bits of celery, carrot, and potato floated to the top, welling in the spoon. She blew on it gently, steam tumbling off the spoon in wisps.

“Open up,” Ann commanded.

Anne rolled her eyes and parted her lips, choking back laughter as Ann tipped the spoon in her mouth. Soup dribbled down her chin. Anne wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“You’re not very good at this,” Anne said.

Ann raised her eyebrows. “Are you criticizing your queen?” she teased.

Anne scratched the back of her head. “Hmm. I’m not sure I like the more self-confident version of you. I’d much rather do this myself,” she added.

Ann smiled at her joke. She held Anne’s hand with her own, brushing her long, lovely fingers with her fingertips, and tracing the deep lines on her palm. Her thumb stroked the callouses on the pads of Anne’s fingers with renewed reverence, their existence the product of years of training, experience, and survival.

“Minimal complaining,” Ann reminded her gently, offering her another bite.

Anne took it. After swallowing, she said, “If I’m ever reduced to eating every meal like this, kill me or let me starve. Let me keep my dignity. And that wasn’t a complaint, that was a request.”
“I’ll run it through my venerated decision-making process, if the time comes,” Ann said diplomatically.

“Hmm. I’m taking that as a ‘no.’”

A smile slipped through Ann’s serious façade. “I have heard your request, and will consider the consequences of each option if the problem arises.”

“A regal ‘no,’ but a ‘no’ nonetheless,” Anne accused playfully, narrowing her eyes.

Ann laughed. “Fine, then. No. Not a chance.”

After dinner, Ann’s eyelids grew heavy. Anne was going on at length about muscles and bones, and the terrible, violent things she’d watched battlefield surgeons mend or amputate. Mixed in with graphic descriptions of bodies were words too long and technical for Ann to begin to understand, and Anne was speaking too quickly and excitedly for Ann to interrupt and ask their meaning.

Ann didn’t need to understand. The deep, frantic tones of Anne’s voice and the fervent way her hands moved while she spoke were enough to capture Ann’s attention. She nodded during appropriate pauses, asked questions when she could, and memorized the way Anne’s mouth moved when she spoke, from the wrinkle in her cheek to the flash of her teeth.

The captain’s enthusiasm was so wonderful, Ann didn’t want to leave, despite her exhaustion. She propped her arm on the desk and, just for a minute, closed her eyes. Just to rest them.
“Ann,” Anne’s voice called gently. A hand touched the one resting in her lap. “Ann, wake up.”

“I’m awake,” she said, without opening her eyes. “I’m listening.”

Anne chuckled. “Then what was the last thing I said?”

“You were talking about, um, bodies? Something about needing to amputate from the knee down.”

“That was ten minutes ago. I do think you fell asleep, darling. Perhaps you should go to bed?”

“Mmm. No. I don’t want to go. Not yet.”

Without looking, she knew Anne was smiling. Anne said, “Settle in with me then. Until you’re ready to go to your room.”

Ann opened an eye, pouting. “Are you sure?”

“Sure that I want the queen in my bed? Absolutely,” Anne said. Her smile widened. “Who else in the kingdom can claim such a thing? If the answer isn’t ‘no one else,’ don’t tell me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Ann said, giggling.

She crawled into the bed. Through the bedsheet and layers of hay, her hand pressed against the hard wooden board of the bedframe. Ann grimaced, wondering how the captain slept on such a thing every night. She tucked herself under Anne’s arm, careful not to brush the bandage.

“I’m sorry my bed is so small,” Anne said.

Ann hummed. “I’m just grateful to be with you. Besides, it means we can lay closer together.”

Ann buried her face in Anne’s neck, breathing in her warm, lovely scent. As always, she struggled to define it, to ascribe characteristics that would help Anne understand how wonderfully divine it was, then decided simply that she just smelled like Anne.

Anne’s fingers combed through her hair. The gentle tug and release was as soothing as being rocked to sleep, and Ann’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Careful,” Anne murmured. Her lips moved over her ear. “Or you’ll fall asleep here.”

“Mmm. Where the seven best knights in the kingdom live? And in the arms of the reigning champion herself? Probably safer than anywhere else,” Ann replied, her voice muffled by Anne and the pillow.

Anne laughed softly. “You know what I mean.”

“The door’s locked,” Ann reminded her.

“Hmm,” Anne said. “I suppose we’ll craft an explanation in the morning, then.”

Despite the stiff, thin mattress and growing cold, Ann could not remember the last time she felt as comfortable. Laying in Anne’s arms was as toasty as sitting by a roaring fire. The brush of Anne’s breath on her cheek was as necessary as the air that filled her own lungs. They pressed so close to each other she felt Anne’s heartbeat, gentle, vulnerable, raw, constant.

Ann longed for that heart to beat forever. She couldn’t imagine a world without it, grieved for Anne’s mortality, and mouthed a silent prayer to the gods that Ann herself would die first. Ann never felt this way about another person. The feeling flourished in her chest, feathery and light. Her body was too small to contain it. She cried.

I love you.

Ann didn’t know if she said it out loud, if Anne’s low chuckle was just a dream, or what sound trickled from her throat when Anne took her in a long, powerful kiss. So she said it again against Anne’s lips, the wet of her mouth real, warm, intimate.

“I love you.”

Chapter Text

When the sky turned from a navy littered with stars to a soft, light blue from the first rays of sun, Anne began her day.

Ann woke her hours earlier. Her queenly demeanor tempered with sleep; the snoring in Anne’s ear was a gentle, cute thing at first, but grew steadily into a thunderous sound that stirred Anne even from the midst of deep sleep. Anne’s arm still lay tucked under the girl’s waist, numb and buzzing. She frowned at the thick pool of drool on her shoulder.

Anne turned to wake her, but as she looked upon Ann’s face, all frustration turned to tenderness. Faint light from the window overhead touched her golden hair, which spilled over the side of the bed in loose curls. Her tiny ear was all shadows and soft, white flesh. Anne traced its curve with her finger, and the corner of Ann’s mouth lifted.

Anne ran her finger over the creamy planes of Ann’s cheeks, nose, and forehead. She imagined she was the god of creation herself, sculpting a perfect being from granite or clay, her rough, immortal hands carving something beautiful and ephemeral, as delicate as a held breath.

Struck by the urge to write the beginnings of a poem, Anne wormed her arm out from under Ann. What other medium could mine truth from falsehood so deftly? Anne was neither immortal nor a god, and the being before her less delicate than she seemed, yet what other image could capture the contradiction of reverence and responsibility that hung in the air between them?

Anne reclaimed her arm. It prickled as blood rushed to her fingers. Waiting for the feeling to fade, her other hand brushed tiny circles over the small of the queen’s back. At her touch, Ann curled closer to her, one hand tucked under her cheek and the other resting on her shoulder. The heel of Ann’s hand rubbed her bandage.

Anne’s eyes watered from the sting. She recalled their playfulness the night before with bitter sweetness. How easy being with Ann had seemed. How blissful and domestic. As a child, Anne expected life to be too hard and short to find love—who could think of love when hunger gnawed at their belly? In the army, lovers were whores, and wives like dreams beneath closed eyes and a deep, dull ache for home.

When Anne swore her oaths, she knew the reality of love wasn’t romantic or just, and surrendered it before the world stripped it away.

The girl said she loved her. Affection had poured from Ann’s lips as tears fell from her eyes, declaring her devotion in the same breath that she refused commitment.

Anne guarded her heart more fiercely than that. Ann’s sweetness, however, threatened to unravel her. Ann’s soft touch could breach what harsh words and force failed to trespass. Anne would face an army for her alone, unarmed, and never succumb to defeat, while Ann could bring her to her knees with just a smile. Regardless of the oaths. If only the girl knew how much power she wielded.

Without waking her, Anne reached over Ann to grab her journal, ink, and pen. She balanced the book on her knee and began to write, scribbling scraps of thoughts in the low light. Once she finished, she looked over the words to complete sentences and string together stanzas, but it was too dim to read anything she’d written. She leaned over Ann again to lay the pages on the desk to dry.

Curled up against her once more, Anne rested their foreheads together. She wiped away a bit of drool from the corner of Ann’s mouth with her thumb, then kissed her slowly. Ann’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheek. She hummed as she woke, and kissed her back, their mouths moving against each other.

Voice thick with sleep, Ann said, “Hello.”

Her lovely smile could move the mountains from the East to the West. Anne kissed her again, relishing in the softness of her lips, her cheeks, her nose. In that moment, Anne swore it was her eyes opening that brought the morning, not the rising sun.

“Hello, darling. Do you want to go on my morning walk with me?” Anne said.

“What time is it?”

“Quarter past five.”

“In the morning?” Ann whined. She furrowed her eyebrows in disgust, closing her eyes. “No. I don’t want to be awake yet. And you’re on bedrest!”

“Mmm. But you’re here to help me fit the sleeve over my arm.”

“Anne,” she pleaded.

“I did as you commanded, your majesty,” Anne reminded her. She pressed an amicable kiss to the queen’s lips. “But I’m restless. A good, brisk walk would be the perfect beginning to both our days. And it would save me from giving needless explanations to the rest of the kingsguard.”

“And the servants?”

Anne scoffed. “They don’t matter. No one listens to what they blather on about.”

“Oh, you’re so mean,” Ann huffed. She twirled Anne’s braid on her finger. “But so pretty. Ask me to go on a walk with you again.”

“Will you go on my morning walk with me?”

“No,” Ann groaned. Then she laughed. “Ugh, sorry. Ask me one more time, and I think I’ll be ready.”

“Excuse me, I’m mean?” Anne said, smirking.

She drew Ann into another kiss. The fingers playing with her braid stopped twisting and tugged gently.

“Ask me,” she said, her warm breath brushing Anne’s mouth.

So playful. So easy and sweet. Ann her tugged her hair and smoothed her shoulders. Her grin widened as Anne searched her face for signs of wakefulness. Sleep sunk heavy in her eyes. Her hands moved lethargically, stroking every seam and hole in her shirt. Yet Anne obeyed her request, utterly smitten.

“I’m about to leave for my morning walk. Would you come with?”

Ann bit her lip. “Yes.”

They giggled as they dressed. Throwing the tunic over her head, Anne endured a flash of sharp pain, determined to fit her arm through the sleeve on her own. Ann watched, eyebrows knit with concern, grimacing and wringing her hands.

“See?” Anne said, fighting to stifle a gasp. “I can get dressed. I don’t need to be confined to this bed for another day.”

Ann pursed her lips. “Okay. Only because I’m sure even orders from me couldn’t keep you in any longer.”

She was right.

“Of course I would obey any command her majesty gives me,” Anne said, grinning.

“You’re full of it!” Ann accused. “Oh, at least let me help with your armor. With all these straps, it would be much more efficient for you to have a squire, don’t you think?”

Anne relaxed, allowing her to tie the cuirass. She sneered at the suggestion of a squire.

“I’ve yet to find a squire that isn’t completely incompetent,” she said. “They’re all improperly trained children from families who think themselves too important. None of them want to do actual work, the only want the title of ‘knight’ given to them.”

Ann chuckled. Her nimble fingers made quick work of knotting the cape to her shoulders. “You aren’t from a noble family. It wouldn’t be out of the question to take a squire with a background like yours.”

“Ugh. But none of them know how to read, and I don’t have the time or patience to teach them letters on top of everything else. And gods, don’t get me started on etiquette,” Anne said, scowling. “You would make a proper squire, though,” she added, with a touch of humor.

Ann’s giggle filled the room. “I’ll run that by my advisor.”

Finished, Ann ran her hands over Anne’s chest and shoulders.

“You look good,” she said. Her cheeks tinged pink. “But don’t draw your sword, or wrestle, or invite physical harm upon yourself for whatever reason. You’re still hurt.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I invite those things upon myself?”

“No,” she huffed. “But I do know that you’ll put yourself in harm’s way if you think there’s good reason. And sometimes, the things you think are good reasons aren’t!”

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Anne teased.

Ann ticked a list on her fingers. “Reaching for a book is not a good reason. Someone insulting you, or talking disrespectfully of me, or otherwise saying something you don’t like are not good reasons. Seeing Duke Ainsworth from a distance and drawing your sword to frighten him is not a good reason.”

“What if the book is on the top shelf, and there’s no one around to fetch it for me?”

“Anne!”

“I’m just teasing, darling,” Anne said. She brushed a lock of hair behind Ann’s ear. “I’m no lady’s maid, but I could braid this for you, if you want.”

Ann let out a good-natured laugh. “I’m sure I look absolutely ridiculous, between my wrinkled dress and wild hair. I’m sorry you’ll have to be seen with me,” she said. “And this may surprise you, but I actually have a lot of practice braiding my own hair.”

Ann’s hands felt at the space above her head, catching flyaway strands and curls and gathering them into a loose braid. Her fingers worked quickly, folding her hair into a braid far more intricate than Anne’s. Anne watched her with awe, a question forming on the tip of her tongue.

“When I was a child, I used to hate waiting for my maid in the morning,” Ann explained, a small smile playing on her lips. “I learned to braid my own hair so I could play with my brother in the woods, before my teacher arrived. My mother hated it, because I’d fold flowers and leaves and sticks in my braid. I thought it was quite a lovely hairstyle. I thought it made me look like a wood nymph from the stories,” she admitted with a laugh.

“Have you ever seen one?”

Ann shook her head. “But not for lack of trying.”

“Oh, I doubt you would in these woods, so close to the castle. Too many people. And you only see one if you’re alone. They like to make friends,” Anne said.

She smiled at her memory of the creature, unfolding from the branches of a tall tree, budding flowers in its hair, its skin crumbling and cracked like bark.

“I’d love to make friends with one.” Ann said breathlessly. “What are they like?”

“Alien, but kind. They’re very curious creatures. The one I met struggled to speak, but seemed to understand what I was saying. I told her about cities, the army, and what I was doing, so close to her river.”

“What were you doing?” Ann pressed.

Anne chuckled. “Bathing. That was why she approached me, she was so astounded. Asked me how I could ‘shed my bark.’”

“What did you tell her?”

Anne said, “All of it. I explained what clothes were, and skin, how it so easily collects dirt and blood and grime. She seemed like a scholar to me, a scientist of her species. I tried my best to help her understand. She asked me to put my tunic on, and off, and on again, all the while wondering if it hurt. Sometimes I still wonder if I learned more about her than she did me.”

“You are so lucky,” she breathed. “I’ve never known anyone who’s met one. I’d wondered if they were just myths.”

“I’ve met all sorts of fantastic creatures,” Anne said. “Maybe I’ll take you to that river someday, and she’ll remember me, and introduce herself to you.”

“Oh, that would be amazing,” Ann gushed.

They walked around the grounds, engrossed in conversation about the creatures Anne had met and the places she’d been. Ann was a thoughtful listener. Anne learned that when a question popped in Ann’s head, she would wrinkle her eyebrow and bite her cheek. Her questions were often things Anne never considered, like why slaying a dragon was considered an honorable act among knights, and whether fairies knew their trickery was harmful, and if they should be held to the same moral standards as human beings.

Despite taking twenty minutes longer than usual, their walk ended too soon. In an alcove near her room and out of sight of the guards, Ann pressed her lips to Anne’s cheek in a chaste kiss, a blush coloring her cheeks. Anne only smiled and wished they could walk arm in arm.

Outside Ann’s quarters, Sowden and James shared a curious glance as they approached.

Bowing, James said, “Is everything alright, your majesty? The three of us—Ser Sowden, Ser Cordingley, and I—waited all night, and when we didn’t see you, Elizabeth thought maybe we’d missed orders and went back.”

“I believe I did see her snoring in a chair when we left the lodge,” Anne remarked.

Ann said, “You missed no orders, ser. I simply fell asleep. The captain was kind enough to accommodate me.”

“Winning so many games of chess in a row must get tremendously boring,” Anne added, smirking. “I hardly knew what was happening until her majesty nodded off and nearly fell to the floor. I caught her, of course, with my good arm.”

“Oh. Um, good, captain,” James said. “I’m glad you’re all right, your majesty. These last few days have been...hard for all of us.”

“Thank you for accompanying me on my walk, your majesty,” Anne said, bowing. Her cut wrenched with pain. “I always enjoy our conversations.”

Ann offered her hand. Anne pressed her lips to her knuckles, as aware of Sowden and James behind them as she was the blush flourishing across Ann’s cheeks.

She said, “Thank you for the company, Ser Lister. And, um, my cousin insists that we have a meeting this afternoon about the…event. If he hasn’t invited you—which he should have, since you were there and you’re the captain of my personal guard—I would like you to come. If you’re feeling well enough.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Anne said.

Ann bade her farewell with a shy smile.

***

Anne’s breakfast was cold.

The tray sat outside the door when she returned, bearing her usual breakfast of oatmeal and toast. She swallowed the first bite with disgust, the cold gruel more slime than food. Pushing it away, Anne regarded her own room—left disheveled in their laughter and haste—with new eyes.

Anne’s blankets lay tossed and twisted, and her pillow crumpled where the queen’s head rested only an hour before. With no one to tend to it, the waning fire had turned to ash. Anne frowned. Maybe it was poetic to think so, but the room itself missed Ann’s warmth. It had never known laughter like hers, or the radiance of her presence. Now the room seemed cold and impersonal in a way that had never bothered Anne before.

Ann’s chess set lay forgotten on the desk, a stone knight and queen spilling out of the small leather bag. Anne smirked, turning the pieces over in her palm, admiring their rugged carvings. She wondered if it was a sign from the gods that all would be well.

“Captain?” Cordingley called as she knocked.

“Come in,” Anne said. She spat out a mouthful of oatmeal with a grimace.

Cordingley cautiously opened the door. She blinked in surprise and said, “You’re back. I thought you were with her majesty this morning?”

“Yes,” Anne said, placing the cover over her breakfast tray. “What can I do for you?”

Cordingley pursed her lips, and held out a thin stack of letters tied together with twine.

“Some letters for you, captain. The servants couldn’t get into your room yesterday evening to deliver them, so they left them to me. Only two from out of town, I noticed—one from Duke and Duchess Lawton, and this one, from Harder’s Reach, with an ordinary seal.”

“Thank you,” Anne said curtly, taking them. Eager to open the one from Harder’s Reach—where the Stag’s Head Inn was located, and surely held news from Tib—she dismissed the knight with a wave. Cordingley cleared her throat.

“Ser,” Cordingley said. She stared at Anne with wide eyes, her jaw set. “I was on duty last night, and I couldn’t help but notice the queen was in your room...all night.”

The inflection of her voice was sour, not inquisitive. Anne met her gaze, wearing an expression of serene blankness.

“Yes. Her majesty fell asleep during a game of chess, I’m afraid. I offered her my bed, and slept on the floor.”

“I’m surprised you can walk. It’s not the most comfortable of places.”

“I’ve slept on far worse,” Anne said, a tight-lipped smirk cutting her cheek. “Stone beds, flooded wetlands, forest floors. It’s the sticks in unkind places, pine needles that worm their way into your clothes, and dampness that seeps in and never leaves that make it truly miserable. Even now, my underclothes never feel fully dry.”

“I see.”

“Is there anything else?”

Cordingley bit her cheek. “No, ser.”

Anne turned her attention to the stack of letters, dismissing her. She opened the letter from Harder’s Reach first. She pinched it between two fingers, disgusted: the parchment was stained with either drops of blood or wine—one could never be sure with Tib. Anne squinted to decipher the rough handwriting though the blotches.

Annie—
The men you asked about reserved my private room this Friday. No duke. And please refrain from looking so knight-y next time, it truly is bad for business.

Anne bit her lips. Investigating the assassination attempt took priority over everything else, and Anne was loath to leave her majesty for even a single night while her would-be assassin walked free. She stared at the letter, reading it again with her head in her hands.

Dread filled Anne’s gut. Memories of the king’s assassination crashed through her. Confusion. Blood. Chaos. Anne never found the assassin. Her only evidence was a scuffle in the dark of the servant’s hall, and the blubbering words of a frightened manservant who witnessed little more than a moving shadow, then stood by as the king keeled over.

This time, Anne had a weapon, as well as her own, puzzling memories. She fought the thing—whatever it was. A shadow in the dark, a ghost, or a magical beast had shifted through the window to stand beside the queen, if Ann’s memory was to be trusted. Anne wanted to believe her.

Anne stared at the knife laying across the end of her desk. It was the closest thing to evidence she had for either assassination—that, and confusing, blubbering firsthand accounts of the creature in question. A creature that was seen among shadows, and mystified by tired, overworked minds racing with fear and adrenaline.

Anne barely trusted her own account, sure that the dark made a mockery of her deepest fears, throwing shadows and playing games. Her sword hadn’t gone through the creature, but missed entirely, and she was tricked by her own arrogance. There was no other explanation. Anything could be killed with steel. If that wasn’t true, how could Anne hope to protect her queen?

Trembling, Anne strapped the dagger across her chest with a makeshift leather scabbard. She murmured a soft prayer to the gods, and began her investigation.

***

Crossing the barracks brought Anne back to the harsh discipline of her youth. It was alight with energy as soldiers prepared for the expedition. Smiths hammered at spears, swords, armor, and horseshoes, their sharp strikes rhythmic under the buzz of soldiers talking. Lieutenants’ voices rang above the chaos, shouting orders to scrambling soldiers. Spearmen lunged at straw dummies. The swarm of busy men and women sharpened Anne’s focus.

Rawson’s study was at the far end of the barracks. Sure that she marched toward the Ann’s would-be killer, Anne walked like a tempest raged inside her, each step quickened by restrained force, each breath a reminder that her fury was barely contained. She would kill him now if she could, and be done with it, so the bastard couldn’t slink away. Only her oaths restrained her.

Anne knocked sharply.

“Come in, ser,” Rawson called.

Anne entered. General Rawson’s study was lavishly decorated. Plush chairs covered with rich purple and red fabrics sat across his desk and lined a large table, which held a sprawling mess of inked and colored maps. Portraits of his father and grandfather hung on the wall behind him. The general himself sat at a desk of dark, crimson-stained wood, signing a letter.

Anne scowled. “How did you know it was me?”

“Only knights knock like they’ve got something important to say to me. Everyone else is properly timid,” he said, looking up at her. “Get on with it, then. I’m a busy man.”

Instead of speaking, Anne unsheathed the dagger, giving him a full view of the menacing blade. She approached him, then slammed the dagger into the center of his desk, burying its point in the wood.

To his credit, the general barely blinked at the display.

“That’s annoying,” he said under his breath. “This is imported wood, you know. Expensive stuff.”

Frowning, Rawson unstuck the dagger and turned it in his hands. The small rubies forming the serpent’s eyes glinted in the light. The general ran his finger over the blade, testing the sharpness of the edge and admiring the fearsome, captivating craftsmanship. Finished, he held it out to her.

He said, “Come to show off a new toy to me, for a reason I can’t begin to imagine? This weapon isn’t your usual style, captain. Well-made, though. And menacing. How much do you want for it?”

Anne took it, then sheathed it at her waist. “I’m not selling it, general. It was used in an attempt on the queen’s life. I’m wondering if you recognize it.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, turning back to his papers. “But I must say, I’m not surprised our gentle, kindhearted queen has enemies. Though I suppose the notion shocks you, as you seem emboldened by her sweetness.”

Anne said, “On the contrary, I find that enemies come with her position. Strong-willed or weak-willed, cruel or kind, her nation prosperous or bankrupt, there is always someone unhappy with things. Early in my knighthood, it shocked me to see that a good-natured king could have his life threatened at every turn. Now, it’s a grim, everyday reality I aim to counteract.”

“Ah,” he smiled. “But job security too, I’m sure. Except that you never caught the king’s assassin, correct?”

Anne levelled her gaze. She ignored him, and instead said, “How interesting to gamble your legacy as a conqueror general on a meaningless joust without knowing all the facts, especially one as simple as who her majesty’s champion was. I wonder how you could have been so convinced of your victory?”

“Careful, captain, or I might mistake this as something other than gloating,” he said. “I simply forgot she was not her father. You know how his majesty chose his champions—betting against him was always easier than navigating tiring circles of diplomacy and politics.”

“Yes, they look so alike,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, don’t be so literal. I meant in temperament,” he clarified, waving a hand. “The king was an amiable man, and a man’s man to boot. A fortnight hunting together instills a trust and brotherly affection between friends few can appreciate.”

Anne’s lip curled. She rested her hands on his desk, leaning closer to him.

Inches from his face, she said, “Let me share my thoughts about that day with you. I think you told your champion to cheat during the tourney. I think you lost despite it, and you’re angry. I think it’s true that you don’t recognize the dagger itself, but you know of the assassin who wielded it. Who are they?”

Rawson laughed. Not a small chuckle, but a full-belly laugh that shook his whole body.

Teeth gleaming, he said, “You must be so uncomfortable in your victory, ser, to stand here accusing me of a crime—a very serious crime—you and I both know I have no reason to commit, and the know-how and connections to do less sloppily. Ah, losing is almost worth seeing you unravel.”

Anne bit back her rising anger. The general’s body language was relaxed and open—his arms rested behind his head, his legs uncrossed. Her gut rang with the quiet suggestion that he told the truth, while the storm within her quelled it. Rawson had motive, means, and the power to slip out of the reach of justice. If it wasn’t him, who else?

Forcing calm into her voice, Anne said, “Oh, come now. Don’t pretend a new monarch wouldn’t be useful. Someone easier for the likes of you to manipulate than her majesty.”

“She’s easy enough,” he said, grinning.

“What do you mean ‘easy enough?’” Anne pressed. She gripped the pommel of her sword.

Rawson raised an eyebrow. “Another joke, obviously. In the light of recent events, however, I’ll admit it was poor taste. I’m glad her majesty lives. Truly. Getting to know the tastes, quirks, and pitfalls of a new monarch is an arduous thing, as I’m sure you know. Slows down processes for pragmatic folk like you and me.”

While he spoke, Anne watched him. It was easy to tell when most people lied—the energy inside them needed an outlet, whether through a trembling voice, a bouncing leg, or sweat beading on their forehead. They closed themselves off, crossing arms, legs, folding their body inward. The general did none of this. Anne wondered if he was aware that she might be reading him, except that it seemed to take no effort at all.

Rawson began writing another letter, as though her presence was as important and noticeable as a humming insect. The scratch of his pen on the parchment filled the room.

“Yes,” she finally said. The tempest quelled inside her. “I suppose it does.”

Rawson stopped writing and set down the pen.

Sighing, he said, “Captain, this is entertaining and all—a true delight, honestly—but unless you have real allegations with actual evidence, I’ve quite a lot of work to return to. I’m leaving in a few short days and the quartermaster is in a terrible mood about the volume of my requests.”

“Of course,” she said stiffly.

She turned to leave, and the general cleared his throat. “If you change your mind about selling the dagger, let me know. I have a friend that might be interested. He is a collector of oddities.”

“As I’ve said, it’s not for sale,” she reminded him, and left.

Chapter Text

15 years before

Before she spoke the words, and the gods touched her and bound her to the king, Anne’s final thoughts were of Mariana.

Her blood sang with a thousand passions. They churned in her stomach the night before, turning it inside out, spilling and spreading as she heaved into her chamber pot. Without them, her body was numb. She trembled weakly, light as a cloud, hardly deserving the title of knight; a starving child could have cut her down.

I’m done with her, and she with me, forever, Anne thought.

Anne offered to abandon her knighthood, her family, and her life. They might have lived at the farm, or travelled the kingdom tavern to tavern, their true home residing only in each other. Mariana had the gold and connections, and Anne the equipment and skill, to travel happily and comfortably. It would have been a simple life, but a good one, full of adventure.

Now Anne stood before the king, cementing their separation. Mariana could have stopped her, if she cared. And she didn’t.

The royal family looked down upon her from their thrones at the center of the room. The king stood before her, his grin radiant. The queen watched solemnly behind him. Each of the children—two princesses and the prince, to whom Anne might declare these same vows again someday—watched her with gentle curiosity.

The members of the kingsguard, fitted with swords and armor worth more gold than she or her family had ever possessed, stood behind her, completing a solemn circle with Anne at its center.

Anne drew her sword. The scrape of the blade against its scabbard bounced off the arched stone ceilings and drew all the focus to Anne as she offered the sword, and to the king as he grasped it. All thoughts of Mariana faded, and the presence of the gods filled her with full, bright peace.

The gods were an audience for her oath. The vastness of them brought Anne to her knees. Their presence snagged and eddied around her, her infinitesimal, fleeting body like a pebble in their wake. Through the peace, their ancientness took hold of her gut and wrenched it, and she shuddered, bent under the force of their will. Anne knew she could die if they willed it. She was little more than clay or dust, the beat of her heart fragile and new. Her own gentle breathing filled her ears like a thunderous wind.

The king rested the tip of the sword on her right shoulder, then her left. He asked her to speak the words, his low voice like a whisper in her ear.

Anne met his eyes and obeyed:

In the sight of the gods, I pledge my life first to the king, and then his family.
I will mother no children, and I will take no wife.
I surrender my titles and lands to the crown.
I will neither sow nor reap discord in his kingdom.
My sword is his justice.
My shield is his peace.
My life is his.

The words reverberated in Anne’s throat, yet as soon as they left her lips, they were swept away, as though taken to the heavens by a silent, ferocious wind.

With a gesture, the king commanded her to rise. The grip of the gods that seized her so violently before relaxed. Anne wanted to collapse on the cold, hard stone while her jellied limbs and muscles recovered, but the command of the king moved her legs and filled her with strength.

She rose.

Present day

Anne arrived at the queen’s study exactly one minute early. She was surprised to see the rest of the kingsguard was already there, flanking the queen, three positioned at either side of her. They stood at attention, eyes forward, faces grim.

Ann hunched over her desk, scribbling a letter. A thin, wiry gold crown glinted atop her curls as she wrote. Anne blinked. The queen reserved her crown for holidays and special events, not private meetings with her guard. Anne’s mind spun to the worst conclusions.

What’s going on? she thought, and her heart raced.

Ann finished the letter. She glanced up as she reached for her wax, then jumped, noticing Anne.

“You surprised me,” she said, laughing nervously. “I figured it would be best to include the rest of the guard. So we can—can figure out what’s going on.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Anne said absently. Anxiety twisted her gut. “You’re wearing your crown. Is everything all right?”

“I’m—oh! Yes. I’m presiding over a hearing later. Something about a duke and a tax law violation. I’m told the crown gives me the appearance of slightly more authority, and that will get the duke to really listen,” Ann informed her, rolling her eyes. “But if that’s true, I don’t know why I should be there in the first place. Me? Authoritative? I should send you instead. Ser Booth tells me you often sound very mean giving orders.”

Anne looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Booth flushed.

“I didn’t—I didn’t quite mean it so harshly, captain.”

“Are you accusing her majesty of lying?” Anne asked, biting back a grin.

Booth paled, looking between them. He stuttered, “I—I—your majesty, that wasn’t—"

Ann giggled. “It’s fine, ser. The captain was just playing with you.”

“You don’t like my sense of humor, Ser Booth?” Anne asked, allowing the smile to touch her lips. “Her majesty does.”

“I do,” Ann admitted under her breath. She glared at Anne. “Even though it’s not always very nice.”

Washington said, “Since Ser Lister is here, should we start, your majesty?”

“Oh, no, my cousin should be here soon, and then we can start. He’s been rather annoyed with me on that front lately,” Ann said, a small smile on her lips.

A few minutes later, Priestly entered with the queen’s Aunt Ann at his arm. Followed by Priestly and Ann’s aunt were a smattering of cousins, uncles, and aunts, some visiting dukes and others local lords. They filled the room, standing in a semicircle around Ann’s desk, their faces either brimming with concern or blank and bored.

Ann sighed.

“You’ve brought almost the entire family,” Ann observed bitterly.

“And why wouldn’t we, my dear? An assassination attempt! Reliving your father’s death a second time, and so soon after, is unthinkable. Thank the gods the captain decided to do her job this time and save you,” the aunt added under her breath. “Duke Ainsworth sends his regards, my dear, and requests to visit you soon. Such a kind gentleman.”

Anne bit her tongue. The taste of salt filled her mouth. Ann rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, visibly annoyed.

“Everyone out, please,” she said, waving her arms. “Unless you’re the kingsguard or my advisor. This was intended to be a private meeting.”

Most of Ann’s family filtered out, but the aunt scoffed and ignored her, claiming a seat at her desk.

“That was an order from your queen, your grace,” Anne reminded her.

Aunt Ann bristled. “She is my niece, Ser Lister, as you would do well to remember. I’ve had quite enough of you making undeserved threats—”

“She wasn’t threatening you, aunt,” Ann said. Her hands trembled. “You can stay. Just, please, stop arguing.”

Priestly stepped forward, discomfort at the tension plain on his face. He said, “Um, should we begin then, your majesty?”

“Yes,” she said. She took a breath. “Ser Lister, did you bring the weapon?”

Wordlessly, Anne unsheathed the dagger and handed it to Ann, handle first. Ann took it in a cloth, pinching it between two fingers as though it were cursed, and setting it on the desk before her. The ten of them gathered as close as they could to look at it.

Ann’s cousin asked, “What do we know about it?”

“Nothing,” Anne said immediately. “Only that it was used in the attempt on her majesty’s life.”

“It materialized in the hand of the thing in front of me. As though from the darkness itself,” Ann whispered. She looked at the dagger without seeing it, her gaze far away. “The...thing...that conjured it was like a ghost or a shadow, but the weapon was always like this, as real as you or me.”

Ann pointed along the blade of the weapon, her finger trembling as it hovered over the etchings.

Ann said, “And these, I think, are runes. But I haven’t a clue to begin to understand what they mean. Do you think we could find a book on them in the royal library, Ser Lister? You know the place better than anyone.”

Washington smiled, Sowden chuckled, Cordingley choked and turned the sound swiftly into a cough, and Priestly scoffed.

“I haven’t had time to look,” Anne replied, throwing a glare at her men.

Priestly said, “Magic is a thing of stories and songs, Ann. If there are any books, they’re fiction, and we’d be wasting time and resources believing otherwise.”

“But what I saw was real,” Ann insisted. She looked at Anne pleadingly. “Ser Lister saw it, too!”

“I did,” Anne said.

At the tip of her tongue were excuses—Ann and she were tired and afraid, their blood surging with adrenaline. The being was only human, not a creature from myth, their mistake a combination of tricks in the darkness and racing minds. Yet Priestly’s sneer got the better of her, and she hushed those thoughts.

“I did,” Anne repeated. “It was a mysterious being. My own sword couldn’t hurt or touch it. It was like fighting mist given form. I slayed the beast with its own weapon, but I don’t know what manner of creature it was. I can’t say if it was human or magic, but I agree with her majesty—it’s the kind of being one might find in a story, and if it’s real, there’s a chance the stories have more truth than we suspect.”

Ann’s expression softened. She mouthed, thank you. They shared a smile.

“You were tired,” Priestly reasoned. “It was a stressful night, and the memories of what happened with the king don’t help, I’m sure. Do we know, at least, how the assassin got in?”

“It stepped through the wall like there was nothing there,” Ann said.

Priestly pinched the bridge of his nose. “We will revisit this, then. We need to consider whether the assassin was acting alone, or if he was hired—by a person, an organization, anything. You could have any number of enemies, Ann.”

“I doubt the assassin acted alone,” Washington offered. “There were three of us on guard that night. Our rotation covers every entrance at all times. Even the old servants’ tunnels were locked. Anyone getting in used meticulous planning and skill—abilities which would require a lot of money to afford.”

“What about General Rawson?” Ann said, eyeing Anne. “I’ve annoyed him quite a lot lately. That’s a motive. And he certainly has enough wealth to afford a—a skilled assassin.”

Priestley nodded. “He does seem the type, at least in temperament,” he agreed. “Though I hate to think that of a man who has served the country honorably for so long.”

“It isn’t him,” Anne growled. Her jaw flexed. “I talked to him this morning.”

“Are you sure? He could be lying, you know,” the cousin suggested. “In fact, he very probably was.”

Anne said, “I understand that men lie. He wasn’t. The most convincing fact in his favor is that the timing is poor. If it were him, he’d have had the assassin do it when he’s in the north, a safe distance from swift justice.”

“Not the general, then,” Ann declared. “Who else?”

“Who would gain the crown upon her majesty’s death?” Sowden offered.

Anne frowned. She asked, “Does this sound like something your sister Elizabeth might do, your majesty? Has she ever seemed jealous? Angry?”

“Um, she’s never—she wouldn’t—it—it isn’t her,” Ann stuttered, shaking her head. “And I know she’s dreading her husband becoming king of his own country. She’s afraid of the responsibility, I think.”

Anne nodded, convinced. Elizabeth seemed kind enough during the tourney. She was a quiet, meek thing—much more so than Ann—sticking largely to the safety of her quarters and private family gatherings.

They stood in silence for several minutes, pondering. The only sounds were clocks ticking, the gentle grating of armor when a knight shifted their stance, and Booth muttering incoherently to himself, as though having the arguments in his head before putting forth any names.

They began to name various members of the staff and household, each accusation more desperate than the last. Through simple reasoning, each was eliminated.

Anne paced around the room, easing her frustrations and gathering her thoughts. The rest dispersed. Washington and Priestly examined the dagger and began talking at length over who could have forged it and when, and whether the blade was forged for the handle it was attached. The aunt listened to them, a finger pressed to her lips in thought. The rest of the kingsguard stood in a circle, their mutterings bouncing off the high ceilings in faint, incomprehensible echoes.

Ann followed her to the opposite end of the room, taking a seat at the edge of the couch. Their elbows brushed.

“You’re beating yourself up,” Ann said. “Don’t deny it, I see it in your eyes.”

The ease with which Ann read her otherwise enigmatic expression frightened her. Ann touched her forearm, and looked up at her with a bright smile.

“There’s no fooling you,” Anne said, smirking.

“‘No fooling you, your majesty,’” Ann corrected, tapping her crown pointedly. “You forget my titles so easily, Ser Lister. There are punishments for that, you know.”

“Perhaps you should tell your cousin and aunt. They seem to disrespect you so casually,” Anne retorted. “Your majesty.”

Ann flushed. “I was going to say, you’re beating yourself up. And you shouldn’t. There’s no one else I’d rather have as captain of the kingsguard, and I know you’re doing the best that anyone could do,” she whispered. “Even if my family doesn’t approve.”

“And I’ve told you, I don’t care about their approval,” Anne said.

She was deflecting. Ann narrowed her eyes, but let it rest.

“I forbid you to sulk, captain. That’s a command,” Ann said, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

Anne watched her return to her desk. Ann had changed out of her dress from the day before and into a delicate gold thing, with transparent sleeves and silver embroidery along the collar and dipping down her chest, not unlike the engravings on Anne’s gorget. It fit her well, hugging the curve of her waist and flowing light and free past her hips.

In the dress and crown, Ann looked like what she was. The queen. Anne’s superior. Her duty, the one she swore an oath to protect above all else. Anne was a knight, sworn to her service, bound to her by the will of the gods themselves, a force stronger and more lasting than a bond as fleeting or flimsy as a lovestruck promise. She had failed, somehow, in allowing Ann to see through to her doubts.

Anne looked at her hands. They trembled.

“You two are fools,” Ann’s aunt muttered to Washington and Priestly. Anne crossed the room while the aunt eyed the dagger with repulsion. “Such an ugly thing,” she continued. “Sinister. There’s nothing to be gained by looking at it. The person responsible was an idiot, choosing a weapon so recognizable.”

“Maybe it was on purpose, to send a message?” James offered.

Sinister. The word brought to the surface bits and pieces floating in the back of Anne’s mind. The letter from Tib sat folded in her pocket. She withdrew it, reading it over again. If nothing else, Anne could bend it as an excuse to pry further.

“What about the duke?” Anne wondered aloud. “Ainsworth.”

The aunt scoffed. “And what reason would he have to want to kill my niece? He wants to marry her! Or did, before your bravado spoiled it.”

Anne ignored her. “Your majesty, I recall the duke once attempted to court you, before your father passed. The king had refused him, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Ann said. Her eyebrows knit together. “My father refused many proposals for me. Duke Ainsworth’s was one.”

“The situation was very different,” Priestly cut in. “At the time, your brother was the heir, and just married. The question of your marriage was, um, more of a political gambit than—‘emergency’ is a strong word to use, but—well, currently, there is the issue of heirs. That is why we encourage you to pursue him, when before your father refused him,” he finished, growing quiet under Ann’s glare.

“Go on, captain,” Ann said.

“And a year after your father’s passing, he again travels far from his duchy and continues the courtship, which is again refused,” Anne said. “That might make a man angry, would it not? There are reports that he’s still in the city, at least, but why?”

The elderly Ann cut in, “He seems like a perfectly reasonable gentleman. Who wouldn’t travel so far to court the queen herself? Why do you insist on framing him for this?”

“I’m simply asking questions, your grace,” Anne replied, meeting the queen’s eyes.

“On the subject of your marriage, Ann, we really do need to talk about a timeline,” Priestly added, looking between them.

“This is not a meeting about my marriage!” Ann said, seething. Her hands gripped the edge of her desk. She let out a breath, then continued, “Captain, what makes you think the duke could be involved? I can’t take any actions without evidence.”

“This weapon could be tied to a pair of companions he was recently seen meeting with, your majesty,” Anne said. “I know it’s loose, but we have nothing else. In any event, a duke doing business with unsavory folk is worth looking into. I could, if you like. Discreetly.”

Defeated, Ann said, “You might as well. Then at least there will have been a point to all this.”

“Are you having him followed?” Aunt Ann asked, looking between them. “How does she know he’s, what, ‘doing business’ with who? Those are his own private affairs!”

“No, I’m not having him followed. And everything that goes on in my country is my business,” Ann said. “I’d like to hear nothing else about it.”

The aunt leaned closer to Ann, whispering. Standing only a few feet away from them, Anne grit her teeth while she said, “Should she even be here, dear? How do we know that she wasn’t involved? It could have been a set-up to make her look like a hero, or a twisted redemption for the business with your father.”

“I—she saved me,” Ann blustered. Her face grew red. “She is in the kingsguard, bound by oaths to protect me and my family—us—with her life. Whatever your problem with her is, it needs to end here. I’m not saying that as your niece, I’m commanding it as your queen. Do not question the honor of any member of my kingsguard.”

Her aunt shrank back.

“We’re done for today,” Ann sighed. “We’ve—we’ve exhausted everything. It’s best not to beat ourselves up. What—who—ever it is, they’ve proven slippery since my father’s death.”

“You don’t think this is your father’s killer?” her cousin asked.

Ann blinked at him. Her eyes were sunken and tired.

She said, “Who else? Look into that yourself, if you want. If you think it will help. I—ugh. I need to lie down.”

The others filtered quietly out of the room while Ann meandered to the couch. She collapsed on it, covering her eyes with her arms.

“Captain,” Ann called. “Would you close the curtains for me?”

“Of course, your majesty,” Anne said.

Anne nodded to Cordingley and Booth, who were on duty for the rest of the afternoon, and closed the door behind them.

The thin, navy fabric of the curtains did little to dim the room, but cast a blue tint on everything inside. Ann’s eyes were closed. She was so peaceful, her smooth, freckled face like azure marble. She looked almost asleep.

Anne lightly traced her lips with a finger. Ann wrinkled her nose. “That tickles,” she said, laughing. “Stop!”

Anne obeyed, smirking. She whispered, “You’re already falling asleep. Should I go?”

Ann sat up, patting the cushion next to her. “No, stay. Just for a little while.”

Anne relaxed on the couch, then gathered Ann close.

“Ugh,” Ann sighed, climbing into her lap.

Anne smoothed her hair. “That bad of a day?”

Ann groaned. Anne ran her fingers through her hair and massaged small circles at the back of her neck. She sunk into Anne, growing heavier and more relaxed, her arms splayed over Anne’s shoulders like a sleeping cat.

Into Anne’s neck, she groaned, “They’re absolute vultures, and I’m rotten meat! Any excuse to bring up their dislike of you or betrothals or marriage and they—” she made a gesture with her hands, like claws sinking in. “It’s so frustrating.”

“Yes, they’re very tiresome.”

“Mmm. I don’t want to talk about them anymore,” Ann said. She peppered a chain of kisses up her neck and chin.

Anne grinned.

“I like this dress,” Anne said, playing with Ann’s sleeve.

Ann pulled back to look at her. She smirked. “I know.”

“Oh? How do you know?”

“It gets you to look at me when you shouldn’t,” Ann said, biting her lip. “I see your eyes linger. And not on my face.”

“You’re an artist. You understand how one can want to appreciate beauty through observation.”

“Oh, I think you’re doing more than that,” Ann said.

Her hands slid down Anne’s chest and stomach. Anne felt only the slightest pressure through her cuirass, but Ann’s intent burned her ears.

“And I think you’re guilty of the same,” Anne accused.

She gripped Ann’s waist, drawing her into a kiss. Ann squealed in surprise and collapsed into laughter, her kisses sputtering and slow. Stifling her laughter, Ann buried her hands in Anne’s hair, pressing careful, gentle kisses to her lips. They were agonizingly slow. Anne tried to deepen them, but Anne put a frustrated finger over her lips.

“No.”

“What are you doing?”

Ann blushed. “Your lips are soft. I’m trying to memorize how they feel. And when you kiss me back, I—my mind goes—you know. Everywhere.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“It breaks my concentration!”

Anne relaxed, folding her arms behind her head while Ann did whatever she wanted. She pressed soft, gentle kisses on her top lip, her bottom lip, and the corners of her mouth. Her delicate fingers picked at the cape around Anne’s shoulders, gathering the fabric in a fist.

Ann’s warm tongue followed the curve of her top lip. Anne moved her hands to grip Ann’s thighs over her dress. Ann laughed, her breath like a warm blush across Anne’s cheeks and nose. She took Anne’s face in her hands, smoothing her cheek with her thumb. Ann pressed a kiss to the center of her lips. Anne kissed her back and, finding no resistance, deepened the kiss to a warm and wet thing, their mouths moving over each other with dizzying tenderness.

“Your m—oh!”

Anne pulled away with a start, meeting Ann’s eyes with terror before they both spun around. Ann leapt off of her knee, one hand steadying the crown. She brushed the front of her dress.

Cordingley stood frozen in the doorway, her face white as a sheet. She looked between them, her expression struck with panic and confusion.

“You forget your place, ser. Knock when entering the queen’s study,” Anne burst, bristling. The blood drained from Ann’s face. Anne cleared her throat, softening her voice, for Ann’s sake. “What is it?”

“I—well, your majesty, I—um, was j-just going to ask if you planned on eating lunch and—and whether w-we should—but I see you’re—uh,” Cordingley stuttered. She stared wide-eyed at the floor, sweat beading at her temple. “W-with the captain,” she finally finished.

Anne stood. “Your majesty, if you’ll excuse us,” she said.

Ann nodded, petrified.

Anne followed Cordingley out of the room. She opened her mouth, but Anne quieted her.

“Say nothing,” Anne said. “Until we reach my quarters and the door is closed.”

A thousand obscenities hummed at the tip of Anne’s tongue. As for which burst out, she only needed to make up her mind. Cordingley was witless, crude, an annoyance. A dozen fools couldn’t match her daftness. The negligence that allowed her to open the door—the queen’s door, for fuck’s sake—without knocking would kill her someday, and she deserved it.

Cordingley struggled to keep up with her. Anne stormed ahead, despite her cries for Anne to slow down.

In her quarters, Anne fiddled with the straps of her bracers while she waited for Cordingley. Anne heard her the moment she entered the lodge, slamming the door behind her and ascending the stairs with slow, heavy footfalls. She shook her head, and motioned for Cordingley to lock the door behind her when she entered.

They started at each other. Anne motioned to her, and said, “Speak.”

“Our oaths!” Cordingley sputtered.

“What of them? I’m breaking none,” Anne said, with measured calm. She knelt by the fireplace and kindled the fire, busying her hands. “I would never.”

Cordingley began to pace around the room, pulling at her hair and wringing her hands.

“Our first duty is to the queen. And we can bear no children—the point of that is to preserve our integrity by not engaging in—in sexual acts. With anybody! But her majesty herself…oh, what have you done, captain?”

Turned toward the fire so Cordingley couldn’t see, Anne rolled her eyes. “Yes, no children. The product of intercourse between a man and a woman. I swore to have no children, and I never will.”

“Yes, that’s the literal wording, but not the meaning of the oath, not—not the point of it,” she exclaimed.

Anne turned and spat, “And where is their meaning written? We can argue endlessly about the semantics of oaths, but they can be interpreted in so many ways. When I swore mine, I swore never to have children. I swore to pledge my life serving the queen, and in doing so, never to marry. The gods themselves witnessed it. I was in their fist, like a tiny flame they could extinguish without a second thought! I know the consequences. Tell me again which oaths I have broken, so the gods can take it upon themselves to smite me where I stand.”

Cordingley stared at her. Her expression fell. “So you and her majesty have—have—”

Anne snapped, “Have what?”

“B-been intimate?” she asked in a whisper.

“Intimate?”

“You’ve—you’ve not—?”

“I don’t see how that information is relevant to you,” Anne said.

“She isn’t f-forcing anything?” Cordingley asked. “If she is, the oaths don’t bind you to that sort of—”

Anne scoffed, waving her hand. “No. Of course not.”

They stared at each other. Cordingley squirmed under Anne’s gaze, hands picking at her cape.

“I’m sorry,” Cordingley finally said. “I—I should have knocked. And t-the—well, the gods themselves are the judges, aren’t they? As you say…”

Cordingley did not look convinced with herself. Anne waited for her to go on, but when it became evident that she wouldn’t, Anne said, “You will not speak a word of this.”

“No.”

“To anybody.”

“No.”

Anne’s frustration rose as she spoke, “Not to me. Not to the rest of the kingsguard. Not even to the queen herself. And if you mention any of this to her family, so help me, I may consider breaking my
oaths.”

“No,” Cordingley said, looking at her feet.

“Then you are dismissed. Take the rest of the afternoon off, and tell Washington to work a double. You weren’t feeling well after the meeting this morning.”

“Yes, ser.”

In the solitude of her room, Anne cried. She punched the wall with a fist. The stone bruised her knuckles and tore her skin, and as a drop of blood slid between her fingers, she closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

For the first time since her parents’ deaths, Ann gasped awake from a nightmare that wasn’t about them. Her breaths shuddered and her hands shook, grasping the covers in front of her while her heart pounded in her ears.

Ser Cordingley had caught them, standing frozen in the doorway while Ann straddled the captain of her own kingsguard. When her family found out, they ordered Anne’s execution. They wheeled her knight out to a grand coliseum with a noose at its center while Ann stood beside it, forced to watch as though she herself had ordered Anne’s death. But she wouldn’t. She couldn't.

The coliseum. Ann tried to picture what the building looked like, the color of the stones, even its size or where it was in the kingdom, but couldn’t. She searched her memory, but found only those in the dream, too immediate and real to unravel and separate from truth.

Even with her eyes open, the dream resurfaced, poignant and warped, in Ann’s mind. The details of the noose were as clear to her senses as a sharp, cold breath. The thick, frayed rope swung gently in the breeze, its yellowed twine sticking out and catching harsh sunlight like wild hair. The breeze carried its own horror—death, blood, rot.

Immediately as Ann peered into the crowd to look for her, Anne appeared on the platform beside her. She dipped her head into the noose, meeting Ann’s eyes with reverence and forgiveness. In the way that dreams are able to distort time and space, Anne touched her hand and stroked her cheek.

“Everything will be alright,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.”

The ache in Ann’s chest burst, torn anew. She sobbed, heaving each breath as though her lungs were stones beneath her ribs.

“Your majesty?” someone called from outside the door.

The scrape of the knights drawing their swords pierced the quiet, and they stepped into her room. Flickering light spilled in from the hallway. Ser Cordingley rushed to her.

“Are you all right, your majesty?”

Fear surged through Ann. She gripped the knight’s forearm.

“Please, don’t say anything. Please,” she begged. Tears spilled from her eyes. “If you tell them, they’ll kill her. They’ll hang her. All I s-see is th-the noose! Sh-she—she can’t d-die. She can’t.”

Ser Cordingley and James exchanged looks. She said, “Who, your majesty?”

Ann looked at James with uncertainty. She pulled at the knight’s arm to whisper in her ear, “Anne. Please. Please, don’t. I love her.”

Cordingley stared at her, her lips pursed, striking a thin line across her face.

“Is there anything else you needed, your majesty? A drink to help you fall asleep?” she said stiffly.

“Please, don’t,” Ann whispered. She clutched at Ser Cordingley’s arms, then gripped the fabric of her cape in a shaking fist. “Please. Please. Sh-sh-she can’t. Not because of me.”

Ser Cordingley stepped away. Ann recoiled, shrinking back under the cover of her blanket. Despite the warm safety of her bed, she spiraled, her mind flitting through each possible future. In all of them, Anne perished, and Ann—supposedly the most powerful person in the kingdom—was powerless to stop it.

This is stupid, she thought. You’re stupid. Anne is fine. If Anne was worried about her safety, she would…she would…

Ann found she didn’t know what Anne would do. The memory of dream Anne touching her cheek sent a prickling sensation over her skin. Then the noose tightened.

“No,” Ann hissed. “No, no, no, no.”

Anne would die, surely. It was an omen. Ann was cursed; the visions of her parents during storms were more real than memories, and her last dream had seeped into reality—why not this one, too?

Ser Cordingley whispered something to James, their gazes downcast. They sheathed their swords. What were they talking about? Ann picked at a loose thread in the blanket. James was her friend since they were children. She loved him like a brother. If Ser Cordingley was telling him about—if she was—if—he wouldn’t, would he?

Ann pulled the thread, unravelling the tight stitching in a thin line. She stretched the gap with her finger, widening it as the knights talked.

Finally, James knelt beside the bed.

“I will get the servants to bring you water,” he said. “And a glass of brandy, if you want it. Do you want either of us on guard in your room for the rest of the night, your majesty?”

Ann stretched the hole in the fabric, snapping the threads. “No,” she said.

James began to walk away, and she stopped him.

“James,” she called. He turned. “We were friends, as children. That’s why I sponsored you for knighthood, and chose you for my personal guard. I—you—you would tell me, before my family, if—if anything was ever wrong? Even if it involved me?”

He blinked. “Of course. Is there something specific you’re thinking of? Any…anxieties I could calm right now?”

Ann stared, biting her cheek. She thought perhaps too long, long enough for James to doubt her answer was truthful. He looked at her as he always had, respectful, deferential, but somewhere underneath he thought her ridiculous like all the rest.

“No,” she said. “I just—m-my dream was so real. So confusing.”

“I’ve had nightmares like that too, your majesty. They can be terrifying, but I’m sure the feeling will end in time. I’m sorry,” James said with a small, stiff smile. It was as close as he ever got to a friendly one.

Ann returned it, tight-lipped but sincere. She sighed, releasing the tension in her bones, but soon collapsed into a long, aching sob.

***

In behavior typical of someone Anne considered one of the most frustrating people in existence, Cordingley knocked on Anne’s door far too early in the morning. As soon as she finished tightening the last strap of her bracers and allowed herself to feel excitement for a walk in the fresh-fallen snow, Cordingley’s presence shattered any hope Anne had of a peaceful morning.

“Good morning, ser,” she said. “I’m—I’m sorry to bother you this early. Ser Mackenzie and I thought you would want to know the queen had another nightmare last night.”

Anne turned to her mirror, a tiny, dusty thing leaning on a pillar near her window. She adjusted the knot of her cape, loosening the tie to move it a bit up her shoulder.

Absently, Anne asked, “Another storm?”

The string of false storms terrorizing Ann each night stopped abruptly with the assassination. Anne had a loose theory that the storms were tied somehow to it, though she couldn’t begin to guess how. However, since the attempt, Ann slept very little; she cowered under her covers, wide awake until the wee hours of the morning, when exhaustion gripped her and lulled her to sleep. Anne insisted that someone stay in the room with her. The queen refused.

Cordingley hesitated. “A different kind of dream, I think. About you.”

Anne blinked at her. “Me? How do you know?”

“She was in a panic about it, ser. Kept saying someone would kill you if—” She stopped, biting her lips. “Kept saying someone was bound to kill you. I’ve never seen her so frantic. Seemed to be worse than the dreams she gets during storms.”

“'If?' If, what?”

Cordingley looked away. “I’ve been told not to speak about it, ser. By you yourself.”

Anne rolled her eyes.

“You have permission, Cordingley, we’re in private. How do you know what it was about?”

“She loves you, she said. Begged me not to tell anyone because of it. She was in a mess, thinking about you dying. About you getting killed.”

Ann loved her. Anne steeled herself against those admissions, not because she didn’t believe or desire it, but out of self-preservation. Ann loved her. Without knowing it, the girl had a firmer grip on her heart than any before her. The queen loved her, and Anne was only a knight sworn to her service. Theirs was a story that never ended well.

“Hmm. Poor girl,” Anne muttered.

Anne’s heart sank, heavy with pity. She didn’t expect the fury in Cordingley’s eyes, and listened with a mixture of curiosity and resentment while Cordingley continued to speak.

“This is why the oaths forbid it, you know. Not exclusively, obviously there’s too much gray area for that. Forbidding marriage and children means forbidding this kind of love, ser, for this reason. You are sworn to die in her service, if the gods will it. That doesn’t always mean giving your life for hers, sometimes it’s a harder choice, like giving your life to carry out justice in her name. Could you do it still, knowing she loves you?” she demanded.

Anne grit her teeth. She said, “I know these things, don’t speak to me like I’m a child. Are you questioning my ability to honor my oaths?”

Cordingley trembled, swimming with nerves, but she nodded.

She said, “I am, ser, as is my right. Your relations with her majesty don’t break any oath, at least directly. But I invoke my right to know, knowing she loves you—could you do everything that’s required of us, still? More than being selfless, it’s—well, it’s about living by the code, even when it’s unfair. Could you make the choice to die, for any reason, even if it’s stupid, all the while knowing she would grieve you if you died?”

“Of course,” Anne snapped.

“Were you married before you joined the kingsguard, ser?”

Anne immediately thought of Mariana. Her smile, the light in her eyes when they first declared their love, and the hope that bloomed inside her when they daydreamed of running away together, leaving their lives behind.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” she finally said.

Cordingley sighed. “Well, I was, ser. And a mother, too. This is more dangerous than you think. Someday, you will have to choose. Abandoning one oath weakens any other, even if the gods deign not to punish you. If the gods don’t do it, you will.”

Anne studied her with a measured look. Having said what she wanted, Cordingley let out a breath, then bowed her head.

Anne answered, “Despite what you think, I do take my oaths seriously. I’ll die today, if I must.”

For added measure, Anne gripped the handle of the longsword strapped to her waist, and unsheathed the newly forged dagger strapped across her back.

Cordingley frowned. “Where are you going?”

“The little town in Harder’s Reach. I have a lead, if it can be called that. Less than a lead, more of a gut instinct. A letter from a friend.”

“Is it wise to leave her majesty down a guard for the night? With—with the assassin still on the loose?”

Anne cocked an eyebrow. “I have confidence in you. Am I mistaken?”

“I—no, ser,” she said. Evidentially, the confrontation took all the fight out of her.

“Is there anything else?”

“No. That was all I wanted. Her majesty seems to be fine, now, ser,” Cordingley added. “It was an ordinary nightmare, it seems. She went back to sleep rather peacefully.”

If Anne didn’t know Cordingley better, she might have mistook this kindness as a peace offering.

“Thank you,” Anne said, managing a tight-lipped smile.

***

The nervous tap of her fork on her plate was the only thing keeping Ann sane. She steeled her gaze on the untouched fruit in front of her. Seedy green grapes, a bright apricot, and a sliced pear. They looked delicious, and she wanted to eat them, but feared a sickening lurch in her stomach as soon as she tasted their sweetness.

Even the light, nutty flavor of her chestnut tea was too strong. She pretended to sip it, warming her nose with the steam.

“—why I think you should marry him, dear,” Aunt Ann finished, eying her expectantly.

Ann didn’t remember who she was talking about. She blinked the glaze away from her eyes, hoping her aunt didn’t catch on, and sat a little straighter in her chair.

“No, I don’t think he’s quite right,” Ann said.

Beside her, Catherine smiled. “You’re so picky,” she said, not unkindly. “He doesn’t have to be attractive, you don’t even have to love him. He’s kind, Ann, and quiet. He fits your temperament. That could be enough, couldn’t it?”

There was a time when Ann thought of her best friend as the pinnacle of humanity. She longed to hold herself with Catherine's grace, to smile with the bright coyness she exuded. Now, Ann wondered if the girl ever loved her late brother, or if he—a crown prince, at the time, the future heir—was simply "enough." Ann's gut twisted at the thought. The affection that bloomed between them as girls faded years ago. What kept her here now?

“It’s those stories again,” Priestly said, uncharacteristically bitter. Perhaps he was as tired of this conversation as she was. “Magic isn’t real, just as marriage isn’t about love or romance. You have a duty, Ann, to your kingdom, to your family, and to the gods.”

“Hmm,” Ann answered. She didn’t have the energy to say anything else.

“You do remember what that duty is, Ann?” Eliza asked.

“Yes,” Ann whispered.

She continued to tap her fork in a quick, steady rhythm. Tap tap tap tap tap. Ann devoted exactly enough energy into the conversation to know when it was finally over. Until then, she fought her brain from spiraling into thoughts of Anne.

Ann longed to escape her current situation with kind thoughts, like thoughts of how Anne smelled, how soft her lips were, the slight purse of her lips when she read a book, or her endless interesting stories about her travels. She wanted to close her eyes and escape to that moonlit night after the tavern, when she lay in Anne’s arms outside the castle walls, willing with everything she had that time would stop, and that moment would last forever.

But it didn’t. Ann’s own steady rhythm was proof of that. Each second ticked by, neither slowed nor quickened by her tapping.

Anne was going to be killed, and it was all her fault. Her fault. Her fault. Her fault. Her tapping quickened furiously. Catherine reached out and gently stilled her hand.

“You’ll break the plate, Ann,” she said softly. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Ann said. She choked it back. “Yes. I don’t want to marry who—whoever this is. I can’t.”

With her hand stilled, her leg bounced. Ann knew the correct, selfless course of action was to cut their relationship off for good, but she couldn’t. Ann’s nervous, restless mind would accept no peace but Anne’s kindness. Her skin ached for Anne’s warmth, her ears for her voice, her nose for her scent, and her lungs for the long, deep breath she could only take in Anne’s embrace. The ache weighed her down, the guilt of it hanging around her neck like a lead rope.

“—are the reason for your duty, Ann. You need heirs. Elizabeth being the princess of another kingdom as well your successor is…complicated,” Priestly said, not paying attention to Ann or the look Catherine threw him.

Ann stared at him, numb. She said, “If succession is the problem, why can’t I name another successor?”

He let out a breath. “Wars have been started for less, Ann.”

“Wars? My sister wants it less than me, if that’s possible,” Ann muttered.

“Ah, but the kingdom she married into loses their alliance. There would be no family bond. And now, with Elizabeth being so close to inheriting—no, only a child would keep things calm, and the way they are. Anything else could be chaos.”

Ann’s eyes flickered over the face of her family, varying from concerned Catherine to bitter William and the cold, resentful gaze of her aunt.

This is chaos, she thought bitterly.

“We’ll send a letter to him, just to gauge his interest,” her aunt concluded, as though Ann had never spoken.

Catherine released her hand. Too numb and exhausted to fight her aunt, Ann stabbed a grape with the fork.

***

Anne arrived at the Stag’s Head early in the evening, as most of the night’s patrons filtered in from the edge of the town. The inn buzzed with conversation, the scraping of forks on plates, and the occasional smack of a mug on hard wood, but had not yet reached its full fervor.

To keep a low profile, Anne dressed in the scuffed set of armor she kept from her days of serving in the king’s army, instead of her richly embellished kingsguard steel. At best, she looked like a weathered veteran seeking warmth from the harsh winter night. At worst, she could have been a deserter, wearing military steel but sporting no colors. Either were welcome company in Tib’s establishment, and neither interesting enough to draw unwanted attention.

At the bar, Tib looked her over, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. She said, “Much better than last time. For a week I had two men bothering me about why there was a kingsguard skulking about in here.”

“Just two?” Anne said, amused.

“Yes, the only two that saw you, and couldn’t be convinced I’d hired you to shut their smart mouths. Lucky for both of us it was only two,” she muttered under her breath. “Either way, you’re early. They won’t show up for another hour or so.”

“I was hoping to scout the room. See which wall was thinnest, or find a place to hide, if I’m lucky,” Anne said.

“You could,” Tib said. A mischievous grin spread across her face. “Or you could do it the easy way.”

Anne grinned. “By all means.”

Tib led her around the bar and through another door into a cramped pantry. It was a small room stacked high with bags of flour, cans of pickled vegetables, and dried meat. The faint smell of spices and brine sat in the air. With a grunt, she slid a large crate away from the wall, revealing a tiny hole in the wood.

“The best part of having a ‘private’ room is getting to hear all the things people say when they think they’re alone,” Tib informed her.

Anne knelt to peer through it. Nearly the entire room as visible through the opening, except the corners on either side. It was simply furnished, with only a small table and a set of chairs.

Anne said, “And this hole isn’t visible on the other side?”

“Hidden by a strategically cast shadow,” Tib explained.

“Better than I could’ve hoped,” Anne said. She grinned. “Thank you.”

“And I need one thing from you,” Tib said seriously, prodding Anne’s chest with a finger. “You are not to arrest anyone inside my establishment. If that happens, all the customers out there? Halved. Quartered, even. I don’t need to be known around town as some sort of—of bootlicker. That’s not our relationship. Can you do this for me?”

Anne pursed her lips. “Sure,” she said. Then added, “If they don’t start anything.”

Tib narrowed her eyes, but left the room, mouthing, “I’m watching you.”

From the dining room, a lutist plucked the beginnings of a song. Anne’s thoughts drifted to Ann. Sweet, gentle Ann. She longed to take her by the waist and dance, their bodies flush against each other, spinning slowly until the rest of the world faded away. Ann was a refuge from chaos, her sweetness like shelter in a storm.

More than anything, Anne wanted to sleep next to her, brushing away the remnants of her nightmares with a kiss or a touch.

A door slammed shut. Anne knelt to look, and two men stood in the room, muttering to each other. She recognized them as the two Tib had described—one with one eye, and the other fearsome, bits of his skin missing as though pieced away with a butter knife.

One-Eye took a seat in the chair, folded his hands, and stared straight ahead. The other circled the table, worrying his sleeve. They dressed simply, their clothes muddy and stained like farmers’. Save for their injuries and deformations, they didn’t look nefarious.

Anne caught crumbs of their conversation, but nothing coherent. Based solely off body language, the men were nervous. And waiting for someone.

After a quarter of an hour, the door opened again. Anne’s breath caught in her throat.

Duke Ainsworth entered the room, a scowl carving deep lines in his face. Unlike their last encounter in the Stag’s Head, he dressed in the gaudy style that befitted him. His vest and coat were made from bright, lush fabrics, four of his fingers had large silver rings, and a thin, stylish sword was strapped to his waist.

“Please,” he gestured to the man standing. “Sit.”

Behind Anne, quick, heavy footsteps signaled someone approaching. She busied herself with opening the crate, pretending to work in the event a stranger stumbled upon her. But it was Tib who swung open the door, her face brimming with mirth. Anne rolled her eyes.

“Anne,” Tib hissed. Anne ignored her. “Anne.”

“What?” she mouthed.

“There’s a duke in there,” she informed her.

Anne stared at her, then returned her attention to the men.

“A duke, patronizing my tavern,” Tib gushed behind her. “Kind of brings a tear to my eye, to be honest. Do you know if he drinks much?”

“No idea,” Anne muttered. She gestured at the hole in the wall. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, backing away with a grin.

The duke stood in front of the table now, his back to Anne. He rested his palms on the wood, leaning forward. The men shrank back as they stared up at him, sweat beading above their brows.

“What happened?” Duke Ainsworth demanded in a low whisper.

The men looked at each other. One-Eye answered, “We did as you asked, sir—"

“‘Your grace,’” Duke Ainsworth interrupted. “The title for a duke is, ‘your grace.’”

Anne shook with silent laughter. Despite the duke’s tone and posture, his threats reeked of the same entitled attitude as a spoiled child. He flashed his wealth and title as though they were weapons to be wielded like a sword. It explained, at least, why he treated the toothpick at his waist like a weapon.

One-Eye stumbled on his words, then corrected, “Yes, your grace, sir, we did as you asked for the queen—"

“Be quiet, damn you. Even in whispers, don’t mention her title! You know, and I know, and that is enough. It is implied,” Ainsworth said, massaging his temple. He sighed, “Go on.”

“We—summoned the manifestation, s—your grace,” the other said.

Furrowing her eyebrows, Anne pressed herself against the wall, as though the millimeters of distance would affect the clarity of their conversation. She held her breath, frustrated at the loudness of her heartbeat.

He rounded on them. They shrank back. “Did you? My sources in the castle say that the thing was an assassin. She was afraid, she was powerless, she nearly died.”

“The manifestation stems from the emotions of the event, your grace. If it is her memory of the king’s death, as you say, she was likely feeling fear.”

Manifestation. Anne mouthed the word, jogging her memory for the stories from her youth. Demons were things that derived their power from emotions, appearing in children’s stories as evil—but playful—creatures, tormenting a boy stealing a pair of shoes, or chastising a girl who never prayed. They were silly things whose purpose was teaching morals, not real, dangerous beasts.

Ainsworth rubbed his face with his hands. “No, I wanted you to make her feel love. To seek comfort, companionship. The manifestation was supposed to be me. It was supposed to save her from her nightmare, not come alive from it.”

Anger boiled in Anne’s gut. The duke preyed on Ann in her moments of vulnerability. That he hadn’t meant to kill the girl changed nothing—it only proved how idiotic he was, trusting sorcerers whose craft he knew nothing about.

“We can’t control the dreams or visions, your grace, sir. Only the trigger—the storm. She likely has them regardless, during natural storms. We only—"

The duke gripped her edge of the table, his knuckles white. “I thought that was why I hired you. To make her have visions. I was supposed to be her savior from them.”

The man took a deep breath. His statements were direct and firm, frustration plain in his voice. He spoke at length, as though educating a child, “We can’t control the nature of her dreams or anxieties, your grace, no more than you or I control our own. Only the brain does that. Only the brain can access the fears and desires we hide in our hearts.

“When we first met, you said the event in question happened during a terrible thunderstorm. We suggested this might be the trigger, and we could experiment and see. We create only the storm, sir—your grace, and increase the likelihood for something to manifest by exhausting both the body and the mind, relentlessly, over weeks or months.”

The duke took a breath. “You weren’t supposed to try to kill her,” he said. “I didn’t want that.”

“The ritual is complicated, your grace. The margin for error, even forces outside of our control and understanding, is large. We told you this. The token—"

“—is in the hands of the captain of the kingsguard,” the duke finished. “She’s clever. Not to be underestimated. She’ll figure out what it is soon enough, and trace it back to your order. And by the blubbering mess you’ve been today, no doubt she’ll trace it back to me. This was supposed to convince her to marry me, not execute me for treason!”

“Yes, well, the other benefactor wants the token back, your grace. Our rituals—”

“Tell him he isn’t getting it back. The captain is suspicious enough without another loose end leading to me,” he said. Ainsworth rested his head in his hands, visibly exhausted.

Anne stood, her hands shaking. Her breath shuddered in her lungs, and her heart throbbed in her ears, blood singing with rage.

Tib be damned, she thought. I’m going to kill him.

As soon as she began to unsheathe her weapon, Tib rounded the corner, a throwing ax in one hand and a dagger in the other.

“Ser Lister, if you draw that sword in my establishment, I will kill you where you stand,” she threatened. “I don’t care if he killed your mother or slaughtered the entire royal family. Fulfill your oaths outside.”

“Threatening a kingsguard is treason,” Anne reminded her stiffly.

“Oh yeah? And what’s killing one?” she challenged. “Outside. You promised me. On your honor, knight.”

Tib said the word like a curse. In that moment, it was.

Anne fist tightened on the handle. The proper thing to do was to arrest the duke and his accomplices, allowing the royal family to decide their fate. Anne had the authority of the queen’s justice, but only in dire circumstances, when action needed to be taken and it wasn’t possible to involve the queen.

Then Cordingley’s words earlier that day wormed their way into her mind. Were Anne’s brash actions out of necessity, or love?

Anne sheathed her sword.

“That’s what I thought,” Tib said, smug.

Anne brushed past her, seething. When the duke left the tavern, she followed him at a distance, hidden from sight. A wave of bloodthirst surged through her, and she craved the satisfaction of challenging him to a duel in the queen’s name. She imagined the pleasing thud of driving her sword through his stomach, and watching the life leave his eyes while his innards dribbled out of him.

Anne gripped the pommel of her sword with her fist. She recited her vows under her breath, drawing peace from their rhythm and strength from their meaning.

Anne watched while the duke untied his horse and galloped away toward the city.

Chapter Text

When Anne entered her study, Ann threw her arms around her, and her lungs took their first full, deep breath in so many days. She brushed Anne’s long, dark hair with her fingers, patted down the gray wisps around her ears and forehead, and marveled that anyone so handsome could exist in the mortal world.

“I missed you. It’s been too long,” Ann said, voice muffled by Anne’s warm, soft neck.

“It’s been three days,” Anne said, clicking her tongue.

Ann smiled. “That’s what I said. Too long.”

“Hmm,” Anne hummed into her hair. “I was busy.”

“Oh? With what?”

Anne chuckled, then kissed the top of her head. With a finger, she lifted Ann’s chin, brushing her cheeks and nose with her lips. Her knight wore a tired expression, and her boots were caked in layers of dried mud. Ann arched an eyebrow.

Anne said, “I’d rather not talk about it right now, if that’s all right. There will be plenty of time later. I’d much rather focus on you. How has your ‘too long’ been?”

Ann groaned. She said, “Awful. My family’s been suffocating me with finding matches, distracting me when I try to talk about naming another successor, and my butt hurts from sitting on that stupid throne for hours on end, listening to spoiled lords complain about property agreements, taxes, bandits—everything. And you weren’t even there to distract me from the dullness of it all.”

“Are there rules against having a cushion on the throne?” Anne teased.

“Apparently!” Ann exclaimed. “Something about it’s ‘childish,’ or it ‘takes away from my regal demeanor’ or some other garbage. Not that anyone can see it when I’m sitting down, my dress is—” she gestured down at the voluminous skirt of her dress.

“Beautiful,” Anne finished for her. “How did you know I like the lavender dress, too?”

Ann blushed. “You like everything,” she said shyly.

“Maybe it’s just that I like you,” Anne said.

Anne took Ann’s hand and waist, pulling her close. The pressure of Anne’s fingers across the small of her back sent a surge of heat through her chest. It was as if they were about to dance.

Dozens of men at dozens of balls held Ann like this before, but she never felt so safe as now, her body flush against Anne’s. Perhaps the most welcome change was that the hand holding hers wasn’t clammy with nerves.

“I thought of you nearly every moment I was gone,” Anne admitted. “At one point, a lutist started playing, and my only thought was that I wished you were there to dance with me.”

Ann laughed, wondering if an orchestra was about to burst from the ether and they would dance. She wouldn’t put such an achievement of physics nor so romantic a gesture past Anne.

“We’re going to dance now? With no music?” she asked.

Anne grinned sheepishly. “Would that be silly?”

“Mmm. A little. But I don’t mind.”

“It takes the uncomfortable seriousness out of the conversation we’re about to have, I think. About events,” Anne said. “And gives my hands and feet something to do when they can’t sit still.”

Ann’s heart pounded in her ears. “What—what serious conversation?” she said.

All of Ann’s senses began to numb as her heart sank to her gut. Her tongue buzzed in her mouth. Her legs began to jelly, and she worried Anne would have to carry her within the minute. A thousand possibilities flashed through her mind, but one rang through them all: was Anne about to end things?

You were stupid to be excited, she thought. To think it would last. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Your family is right. You’re a fool. She thinks of you like a child. You’ve messed up, talked about yourself too much, and she’s bored of you already. If only you’d shut your mouth. You’re st—

“I shouldn’t have prefaced it like that,” Anne said gently. “It’s—I just want to make sure everything is okay.”

Anne couldn’t have been privy to the loud thoughts in Ann’s brain, yet Ann feared their truth, and tears welled in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but one slipped down her cheek, and she scolded herself.

She thinks you weak and insipid. Crying at nothing. Worthless.

“I’ve talked to Ser Cordingley about it,” Anne said, brushing her tear away with a finger. “Everything is okay. But I want to make sure we’re all right, and that you’re not feeling guilty. Nothing is your fault, Ann.”

Sweet Anne. She misunderstood the reason for Ann’s tears, but the words soothed her nonetheless. She let them wash over her, a different dialogue reverberating through her brain. A kinder one.

Everything is okay. We’re all right. Nothing is your fault.

Ann rested her head on Anne’s chest. The steel seared her cheek with cold. She said, “I’m selfish but—I can’t let you go. Unless you want that.”

“We’re alright?” Anne said. She ran her finger over Ann’s lip. Ann shivered. “We don’t need to talk about—about that business with Ser Cordingley—”

Ann shook her head. “No. I’ll die before I let anything happen to you. I swear it.”

Anne sighed, her face falling. “Ann, my oaths are…complicated. The time may come when I’ll have to choose between doing what they require of me and—and choosing to live, selfishly, for you. Do you understand? I must always choose my oaths, or none of this has meaning.”

Fear cut lines deep in Anne’s face, between her eyebrows, in the crinkle of her eyes and lips. Ann’s senses returned to her. She rushed to stifle the remnants of her anxiety, tucking them away with a deep breath.

Ann stood on her toes and kissed her. “I know,” she said. She took Anne’s face in her hands, her thumbs smoothing the sharp cut of her jaw. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Anne whispered.

Anne held her tightly. Ann sighed, relaxing into her, and closing her eyes. Breathing in Anne was like coming home after a long, grueling trip. Ann longed to peel back her armor and feel the warmth of her skin under her rough tunic, and rest her cheek against the gentle slope of her shoulder.

After a minute, Ann pulled back to ask, “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Part of me was worried I’d lose you.”

Ann sighed. “I know how it feels to try to ignore that part.”

“It’s a hard thing,” Anne agreed. “It puts up a fight.”

“It makes you feel worthless,” Ann whispered, trembling. “And stupid.”

Anne’s eyebrows wrinkled. She took Ann’s face in her hand, studied her expression, then pressed soft, gentle kisses on her cheeks. Ann leaned into the affection, closing her eyes. Her body stilled, and her heartbeat quieted; she had never known such tranquility. A whimper crept up from her throat, and Anne smiled against her skin.

Anne murmured, “Hmm. Tell that part of you that you are lovely, and worthwhile, and intelligent, and to come to me with their disagreements. That’s my…queen they’re insulting. Someone I care about. Tell them I’m an opponent that doesn’t lose easily.”

A small smile played on Ann’s lips. “I will.”

For the remainder of their hour together, they sat on the couch, Ann recounting grueling conversations and delightful anecdotes from her meetings since Anne left. She loved the way Anne listened. Her eyes brightened with interest even when Ann said the most boring things, and she always had a comment or joke to turn a dull story into a thrilling tale. And then there were her hands, drawing gentle circles over the delicate fabric of Ann’s dress, on her knee, her thigh, her hip... If Anne noticed her cheeks burning crimson, she said nothing.

Ann crossed her legs. In the middle of Anne speaking, she interrupted, “Anne—sorry—can we—can I kiss you?”

Anne looked as if she might laugh. “You don’t have to ask,” she said, and leaned forward.

Ann straddled Anne’s hips and cradled her face between her hands, surprising the knight with her fervor. She kissed from the fluttering pulse of Anne’s throat to her lips, groaning when Anne gathered the fabric of her dress in one fist and her hair in the other and pressed her close.

Ann smoothed the shoulders of Anne’s cuirass, then tugged weakly at the seams.

“Off,” she commanded. “It’s cold, and I want to feel you.”

“Now?” Anne asked, aghast. “Ann, we can’t—”

“Now,” Ann said, sure.

She turned Anne’s arm over and began untying the leather knots of her bracer. Ann’s hands trembled with nerves and excitement, her fingers struggling to find purchase on the ties. Anne watched her curiously for a moment, then stilled her hand.

“Ann,” she pleaded. “You have obligations, meetings, guests—anyone could ask to see you at any time.”

Ann batted away her hand. “Then we deal with it when it comes.”

“You’d have me, what—hide under the desk? Do you have any idea how humiliating it would be to be found that way—me, a knight, hiding frightened and exposed beneath a desk? I’d beg to be executed.”

“Then when?” Ann said, exasperated.

“Tonight,” Anne promised. “When no one can bother us. And we have more space than—than a couch.”

“Or desk,” Ann reminded her, grinning. “And there was more romance in that broom closet than any other room in the castle that day.”

Anne groaned. “I’d like to forget about that embarrassment altogether, if you don’t mind.”

“Why? I think it’s kind of funny,” Ann said. She fingered the collar of Anne’s gorget, its delicate engravings like a work of art under her fingertip. “A bit uncomfortable, though. My legs ached for days after rubbing on your armor like that.”

Anne’s cheeks tinged pink. “Best not to word it like that,” she whispered.

“No one can hear,” Ann teased. “And I didn’t mean it like—like that. But I could, if that’s what you want.”

Anne swallowed, then laughed. She said, “You really missed me, didn’t you? You aren’t usually this bold.”

Ann did feel bold. She grinned. “Maybe I’m trying to get under your skin. Nothing else seems to work. I don’t want to wait forever.”

“Tonight,” Anne repeated. “And you can hold me firmly to that.”

“I will hold you firmly,” Ann said. With a smile, she added, “To that.”

As if to—frustratingly—prove Anne’s point, a sharp knock on the door interrupted them. Ann moved from Anne’s lap to sit beside her, then smoothed her dress.

“Come in,” she called, and a servant stepped in.

“The throne room is ready for you, your majesty. The rest of the royal family is present,” he said.

Ann stared at him, confused. Did she have subjects scheduled today?

Anne dismissed him. With a proud smirk, she said, “Pick out a comfortable cushion, your majesty. I’ve collected a pair of men you’ll find far more interesting than any your family will introduce.”

***

When Anne told her what the men were, Ann almost kissed her in front of her entire court.

The men looked relatively ordinary, a far cry from the black-robed, hooded cravens that cast spells in stories, with stuffed vultures hanging from their necks and necklaces made of dragon innards. Instead, their simple clothes betrayed nothing.

To the chagrin of her family, Ann learned their names—Joseph, who had one eye, and John, whose skin looked like he’d had a rather extreme run of bad luck. By asking their names, however, she found them more amicable, and their nervous trembling ceased.

“You’re sorcerers?” Ann asked, leaning forward in her throne.

They looked at each other with bewilderment.

“Y-yes, your majesty,” Joseph finally said.

“What does that entail?” she said. Her hands trembled with excitement. “It’s a bit childish to call it magic, I suppose, but all the same.”

Finally, she thought, my cousin and the rest of my family will see I’m not an idiot.

“I—that is what we call it, your majesty, but if you prefer a different word—”

“No,” Ann said firmly. She resisted the urge to smirk at William. “If you call it magic, that’s what it is. How does it work?”

John answered, “Not—not like parlor tricks, your majesty, if—if that’s what you’re thinking. No. It’s more of…an art. Rituals are like painting a picture. Anyone can do it, but it takes time. F-focus. Specific tools and materials. Knowledge of the materials and technique to do well.”

“Anyone could do it? Even me?”

Ann’s aunt scoffed behind her. She was keenly aware of her family’s boredom and disapproval of her questions, but was too curious to care. If she could, she would dismiss them, and question the men by herself.

“Er—yes, your majesty. It can be taught like any skill,” John said.

“How did you learn?” Ann pressed. Without turning, she held up a hand to hush the protesting voices behind her. “Did you have a teacher? Or—or a book?”

“A teacher, your majesty. We are p-part of an order. That has existed for centuries.”

“Why are you telling me this? If no one knows you exist, isn’t it secret?”

He said, “Pardon me, but you do know of us, your majesty. We exist in your stories, in even the smallest village’s lore, and in the whispers of your guards and soldiers and farmers. No one believes they’re real, and we like it better that way. Or…did.”

William coughed. “Are we going to ask them about the duke’s involvement, your majesty?”

Ann reddened. “I was just about to,” she grumbled.

Ann addressed the men. “If your order prefers to remain hidden, why risk being revealed by working with a duke? Why use your abilities to assassinate me?”

John and Joseph looked at each other, then burst into explanations all at once.

“He manipulated us, we couldn’t say no!”

“We beg your mercy, your majesty!”

Ann raised her hand, quieting them.

“He manipulated you? How?”

“There is—a second benefactor, your majesty. Other than the duke. We don’t know who they are, we communicate with letters. We only know they are more powerful than the duke, h-he seems to be afraid of them. Not afraid, um, intimidated.”

“They didn’t understand the art of magic, your majesty,” Joseph added. There was a flash of rage in his eyes. “They wanted from us things we could not do, things magic cannot accomplish. We—we were asked to make you fall in love with him. Magic cannot do this. We only create visual illusion, your majesty. Nothing more.”

Ann jumped when Anne spoke from beside her, her low voice booming with anger. “Visual illusion? You created a being from mist that attacked the queen in the dead of night. How is this only an illusion?”

The men paled. Joseph said,“There are beings on the other side, your m—ser. Demons. Ghosts. They can manifest at weak points, where minds are soft with fear, and where magic has been focused. We cannot control what manifests. We can only make it possible,” he finished, grimacing at his own admission.

“How?” Ann asked.

“By wearing away the veil between this side and the other with repeated rituals, over and over, months at a time. Very strenuous. Very difficult.”

Ann pondered his words. A repeated illusion, over and over? It came to her quickly, relief washing over her like a warm summer rain. She asked, “The storms?”

He nodded. “Yes, your majesty. That was the illusion.”

If Ann closed her eyes, she could picture it now. The same fork of lightning, the same high, wild howl of the wind. An illusion had jolted her into memories of the most horrific night of her life, reliving it over and over, her body seizing with adrenaline, then numbness.

Her voice shook when she said, “And Duke Ainsworth...told you to do this?”

“He did not understand what he was asking, your majesty. But he threatened our lives. So we did what we could.”

Anne drew her sword. The sound of scraping steel quickened her heartbeat, and she lay a hand on Anne’s forearm.

“What is it?” she asked.

Anne’s eyes fixed on the men. Her blank expression hid a building rage. “When the duke threatened them, they made a choice,” Anne said coldly. “Their lives, or yours. Let me be the consequence of that choice, your majesty, and deliver your justice.”

Her anger permeated the room in a tense buzz. The men fell forward, their foreheads touching the floor, and began to murmur prayers to the gods. Ann’s heart sunk with pity for them. They only wanted to live. Ann—the queen—was a proverbial being, a distant figure who existed in spaces they might never enter. Why should they place her life before theirs?

“In time, Ser Lister. I will hold their trial and the duke’s together,” Ann said, smiling gently. She turned to the captain of the city guard, who knelt at the head of the assembly behind the sorcerers. “Captain, please send a letter to Duke Ainsworth, and tell him he is to appear to his trial in a week’s time. If he does not come, his lands, title, and life will be forfeited to the crown.”

Anne sheathed her sword. At the same time, Ann stood, signalling the end of the assembly. The crowd murmured behind them as they left. It crescendoed from a buzz to a roar, somehow louder outside the hall. Aunt Ann jerked her back by her elbow as though she were a petulant child.

She said, “I need to speak to you.”

Aunt Ann followed her all the way back to her room. The door was only half shut when her aunt began to speak.

“You’re going to arrest a duke on the word of two fools?” Aunt Ann scoffed.

Ann stiffened. “No, on the word of the captain of my kingsguard. The ‘fools’ are sorcerers, aunt, whose abilities you didn’t even think could exist until now. They’re dangerous men, and now we know there’s an entire order of them,” she said calmly.

Her aunt continued, “The word of your captain, who has a known bias for the man! That doesn’t seem like fair judgement.”

“How can you—” Ann grit her teeth.

Ann was tired. Tired of her aunt ignoring, picking apart, and cherry-picking the things Ann said until her own words mangled in her mouth before she spoke them. Being spoken to like a child wearing her father’s crown exhausted her. Ann was tired of her great wooden desk extending before her like a war table, of being surprised her feet touched the floor when she sat in the chair, and of the crown’s weight upon her head like a massive anchor, taking her under.

These things were Ann’s, and she fit them. She only had to claim them.

“I won’t discuss this any longer with you. You are not my appointed advisor,” Ann said.

It seemed obvious as she said it, yet it swelled her with conviction like a revelation. Instead of cowering while her aunt bristled with fury, Ann stood, her newfound courage making her small frame feel taller than it was. At that moment, Aunt Ann could have been as vast as a mountain, and Ann would still rise above her.

Coldly, she added, “Please leave my chambers with the understanding that this isn’t personal, and that I will discuss these matters only with my appointed advisor and the members of my kingsguard.”

“Ann, this is a family matter—”

“Please, aunt,” Ann said through gritted teeth. “Just listen to me. Just leave.”

“It’s not necessary to hover over me, Ser Lister, I know where the door is,” Aunt Ann said, flinching away from the captain.

Anne winked before she followed, bringing a flush to Ann’s cheeks.

Chapter Text

In a thousand years, Anne would never admit to a mortal soul, living or dead, that as she ascended the long, dark hallways of the servants’ entrance to the queen’s quarters, she was nervous.

Not about the act itself, obviously. She knew what she was doing. Women’s bodies were familiar to her. Pleasuring them was as natural as breathing, though never so mindless. Yet, something fluttered in her gut, and she couldn’t put her finger on why.

Perhaps it was the queen’s excitement. Ann’s excitement. Ann.

Anne shook her head. She should no longer conflate the figure with the girl. It was too dangerous for her oaths. The queen was not her lover, Ann was. Though they existed in the same body and mind, they were different. The queen, and Ann. Her liege, and her lover. The one to whom Anne swore sacred oaths, and the one who was denied them, and chose to love her anyway.

Anne’s heart thundered in her ears. She was not an anxious person. In fact, she prided herself in her confidence. Ann disarmed her somehow. How easily Anne became raw and vulnerable under Ann’s delicate touch.

Ann’s feverish pleading earlier surprised her. As far as she knew, the girl had never been with anyone. Not that it mattered. But had Ann fantasized? Anne had confidence in her own ability, but nothing real ever measured up to the perfect bliss of a fantasy.

There it was. The insecurity was small and insidious, like a shard of glass hidden in water. Outside Ann’s room, Anne took a deep breath, removing it before it cut her.

When she entered, Ann breathed, “Oh! You came.”

Ann was ethereal. She looked like a goddess spilling from the evening mist in her long, white nightgown and freshly brushed golden hair. Each of Anne’s insecurities melted away. There was only her heart thrumming in her chest, and the deep, dull ache for Ann’s touch.

“You worried I wouldn’t?” Anne said, frowning.

“No, no. Well! I thought maybe something might come up, or they’d randomly decided to patrol the servants’ hallways, or—something,” she finished, looking at the floor. “Something that would ruin it again.”

“We have quite a history of bad luck,” Anne agreed.

Ann grinned sheepishly. “Well, I’ve told no one to bother me tonight. I was very serious. I said, ‘Even if it’s a matter of life and death, I have important work to do.’”

“The kingdom is lucky to have so dedicated a queen,” Anne said, grinning back.

Ann closed the distance between them, her nightgown fluttering with her wide steps. The gown was a new, crisp white, with embroidery along the collar and sleeves as delicate as lace. The fabric was so thin that the pink of her legs glowed from under the milk-white threads.

Ann fell into her arms and kissed her. They were light and sweet, so different from the fervent, hungry things that morning. She held Anne’s face with gentle, warm hands. Ann’s fingertips stroked her cheeks and jaw as though they were the fine details of a painting. The softer her touch was, the longer it lingered on Anne’s skin, buzzing, tingling, then fading away.

The remnants of juniper from Ann’s evening bath still stuck to her hair and skin, singing in Anne’s mouth and nose every time she surfaced for air.

Ann’s hands wandered from her cheeks to grip her shoulders. Under her fingers, the thick fabric of the cape gathered and slipped, and their teeth clashed. Ann rubbed the pain from her lip and laughed, bright and cheerful as a bell.

Ann said, “Let’s take this off, shall we? It’s getting in my way.”

Wordlessly, Anne began to untie the knot, but Ann slapped her hand away. Anne didn’t bother to hide the affection in her expression while Ann’s delicate fingers picked the knot apart. She was so cute. The pink of her tongue peeked out from her lips in concentration, just as it did when she painted her landscapes.

Realization of what was happening burned Anne’s ears and filled her thighs and toes with sinking warmth. Ann’s pace was agony.

As soon as Ann dropped the cape to the floor with a flourish, Anne pulled at the leather ties of her bracers with her teeth, eager to move on. Ann slapped her away again.

“You are so impatient!” she accused, laughing.

“I am,” Anne said. “You’re dragging this out. It’s very unkind.”

“Do you not want to savor this?”

“I do,” Anne said. She found the line of buttons on the back of Ann’s nightgown, unbuttoning the first. “But I’d much rather savor the bit where I’m closer to you.”

“You made me wait,” Ann reminded her. “It’s only fair.”

Ann traced her lips with a finger. Anne did as she asked, and savored every sensation. The touch lingered, fading slowly, like a shadow receding with the rising sun. As soon as it was gone, Ann brushed her lip with as gentle a kiss and it began again. The kiss was so tender it stirred the air between them, drawing them close. She felt that even the breath from her lungs might send them crashing to earth.

Ann pulled away, and Anne stared at her, lips parted.

Ann said, “You’re sure you want to rush through this, when we have all night?”

It was a challenge. “Yes,” Anne said, though she found she didn’t mean it.

Anne unbuttoned the second, and the nightgown dipped slightly, revealing the smooth shadows of Ann’s collarbones. Ann arched an eyebrow, but she was smiling.

Holding Anne’s arm with one hand, Ann drew circles over her bare elbow while she untied the bracers with the other. Each touch stoked the growing heat between her legs. Anne was keenly aware of her fingers, how her touch transitioned from delicate to rough with the gentle scratch of her nails. She wanted to sweep her on the bed at that moment, but bit back the urge, letting Ann set the pace.

After she finished, Ann leaned into her again, resting her hands and forearms on her chestplate. The pressure of Ann’s touch through the steel set her heart going like a clock. They kissed, and the wet sounds of their mouths running over each other filled the room. It felt scandalous, with Ser Cordingley and Ser Sowden standing only a wall away.

Dazed, Anne unhooked the third button with a finger. The gown fell to Ann’s elbows, bunching in soft, bluish folds. Freckles dotted her shoulders. Anne dipped her head, kissing each one as though she were counting stars in the night sky. Her breasts were soft and small, fitting perfectly in the curve of Anne’s rough, calloused hand.

Ann pushed her onto the bed, then straddled her lap. Her gown pooled between their legs. Anne smoothed her hands over the outsides of Ann’s spread thighs, tugging the fabric lightly, testing Ann’s reaction. Ann sucked in a breath, then sputtered into laughter. She wrapped her arms around Anne’s shoulders and pressed their foreheads together.

Fingering the buckles at the shoulders of Anne’s cuirass, Ann said, “This next.”

Anne only nodded. While Ann undid the straps, Anne teased her fingertips at the hem of the gown, and, finding no protest, slid her hands beneath the fabric. Her skin was impossibly soft. Anne’s grip splayed across her legs to touch as much of her as she could, and as she travelled up her thighs, a grin crept across Anne’s face.

“You’re not wearing underclothes,” Anne observed.

Ann stifled her giggle with a kiss. Her hands left the straps of the cuirass to play with Anne’s hair, tugging the last strands free from the string and brushing out the waves of her braid with her fingers.

Anne frowned into the girl’s lips, huffing her displeasure. If she wanted this to be slow, agonizing, and torturously drawn out—Anne was nothing if not open to the idea. She would give Ann what she wanted.

Anne stroked the soft inside of Ann’s thigh with her thumb. She was already slick, her thighs dripping with arousal. Her finger caressed Ann’s dark gold tuft of hair, just shy of brushing her clit. Anne gathered her wetness with slow, gentle circles, teasing where she ached to be touched.

“This isn’t fair,” Ann said between shaking breaths. “Stop teasing me.”

Anne shook her head. “Not until you’re finished taking off my armor. Torturous, isn’t it?”

In lieu of a reply, Ann clawed at the remainder of the straps and ties on her cuirass. With brutal efficiency, Ann unclipped the gorget from her throat, peeled the chest and backplate apart, and tugged the chainmail over her head, leaving Anne in only her tunic, leggings and boots.

“Have you been practicing?” Anne asked, aghast, watching with wide eyes while Ann skirted from her knee to the floor to untie her boots.

Ann grinned mischievously. “Only in my fantasies, Ser Lister.”

Anne blushed at her playful formality.

Ann stripped her tunic off, and her hands smoothed over her bare chest and shoulders. She smiled tenderly.

“I only hope I can do them justice, your majesty,” she said, and fingered the final button, hanging loosely from a single worn thread.

The gown fell from her body, pooling at her feet. In the stark moonlight, her skin was the perfect, smooth marble of a sculpture. Ann stepped out of the gown and straddled her hips, and the warmth of their bare bodies touching brought a blush to her skin.

Anne kissed her neck, but hungered for more of her. She scraped her teeth over the delicate flesh, gnawing a string of kisses from her throat to her shoulders and breasts. She longed to close her eyes, but the girl was so beautiful. She wanted to memorize every freckle and blemish.

Anne spun the queen beneath her, kissing away the squeal spilling from her lips. Ann looked up at her with a gaze so reverent her heart ached.

Ann’s was so unlike her own marred body, yet Ann looked at her with such affection. Ann gripped her shoulders, arms, and stomach, caressing every scar, memorizing the contour of every muscle. Ann squeezed her biceps, biting her lips and flushing a deep crimson when Anne smirked.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Touch me however you want,” Anne told her.

Anne expected her to continue scratching and squeezing her arms and shoulders. Instead, Ann tugged her closer, fitting their bodies together. Ann tucked her thigh between her legs. She groaned from the pressure, and Ann gasped.

“You’re wet, too,” she whispered, eyes wide with disbelief.

Sometimes the girl said things that truly shocked her.

“I—yes? Why did you think I complained so much?”

“I just—I worried I was being too slow and uninteresting, and you just wanted to get it over with,” Ann admitted, blushing.

How Anne wanted to kiss her insecurities away. She cradled Ann like she was made of glass, a sweet, fragile thing sensitive even to the oils on her skin and hair. Anne pressed a hot, heavy kiss to her throat, inhaling the lovely, fading juniper there, and sighed.

“Oh, Ann. I wanted to rip that pretty gown in half the second I walked through the door,” Anne said, lips pressed against her ear. Her breath condensed on her flesh, wetting Ann’s earlobe. She bit it gently, then continued, “I wanted to take my queen to bed, and show her why so many songs are written about knights. And now I want to touch every inch of your body, and show you how my tongue can write a wordless poem.”

“Ser Lister,” Ann whispered. Her eyes were half closed and heavy. She met Anne’s gaze shyly before summoning the courage to say, “Bed me.”

Anne hummed. “Well, how do you want it? I could do this”—she traced slow circles on Ann’s clit with her thumb— “or something like this.” Anne kissed her softly, parting her lips, brushing their tongues together.

“That.” When she pulled away, Ann’s eyes were hooded and her face flushed. “You aren’t allowed back up here until you do that down there,” she commanded.

Anne pouted. “But your face is so cute. What if I want to kiss you again?”

“Too bad.”

Anne obeyed. Under her fingertips, the curve of Ann’s spine was like an assembly of mountains, skeletal and soft. She pressed a warm, wet kiss to her mouth. Ann hummed. She barely had time to relish the sound before Ann tangled her hands in Anne’s hair and pushed her lower.

Anne’s own gray and brown hair tumbled over Ann’s thighs and stomach. She lifted Ann’s legs over her shoulders, swept her hair to the side, and touched her lips to Ann’s thigh, a kiss as gentle as a prayer.

Anne nipped at the inside of her thigh, then brushed her tongue over the sheen of her arousal. Ann pleaded her feebly to move on, her fingers twirling Anne’s hair and stroking her face, but Anne ignored her. She focused her attention only on the soft inside of Ann’s thighs, switching between them as they turned white to pink to crimson from gentle, incessant bites.

Her lips millimeters away from where Ann ached for her most, Anne sighed, and the gust of breath sent a shudder of anticipation through the queen. Ann made a sound between a scoff and a growl. She tugged fistfulls of Anne’s hair, burying her face between her thighs.

Anne kissed her gently at first, more lips than tongue. Her bottom lip grazed the length of Ann’s clit, and the girl released a long, lovely hum.

She was swollen and pink, glistening with Anne’s kisses and her own arousal. Anne kissed her, teasing her hard, round bead with the top of her tongue.

Anne trusted the girl’s hands to tell her what she liked. When she pressed slow, wet kisses over her clit and the dip of her entrance, Ann twirled her hair into ringlets with a finger. Her voice caught in her throat somewhere between a sigh and a hum. The sound was like music from another room, muffled by Ann’s wet, sticky thighs on either side of her head.

Anne brushed her tongue lovingly over the length of her clit, then bit down gently. Ann gripped her back, scratching hard between her shoulder blades, trying to find purchase. The singing sting over her back and shoulders made Anne painfully aware of the ache between her own legs. It spread through her, a gentle, licking burn in her bones, and she channeled it all into the girl in front of her, alight with the same, bright fullness she felt in the presence of the gods.

Anne looked up at her. Wisps of yellow hair stuck to a sheen of sweat across Ann’s forehead, and a grin split her face. They shared a smile. Holding her gaze, Anne kissed her swollen clit and sucked gently, her flesh hot, sticky, and sweet on her tongue, like warmed honey.

Ann’s eyes rolled back and she tucked her face into the pillow beside her. She grasped for Anne’s hair with shaking hands, holding her under, a silent plea for more.

Anne was drunk on the power she commanded over the queen’s body. For each wave of pleasure that crashed through Ann, she wanted the next to be stronger. She savored each delicate touch, from the brush of Ann’s heel on her back to the way Ann ran her fingers through her hair. The rough touches, too, began to take their toll, and Anne teased her finger around the wet dip of her entrance.

Gathering wetness from her fingertip to her knuckle, Anne slowly pushed inside of her. Ann pulled her hair so hard strands snapped and Anne gasped. Wet heat fluttered around her. Anne responded to the pressure in kind, sliding in a second finger.

Ann’s breath choked off into a long, low groan. Her grip stilled in Anne’s hair, her thighs squeezed Anne’s head, and her mouth opened, but made no sound; the fullness seemed to paralyze her.

Anne curled her fingers, and watched as a blood-deep heat flourished within the girl, smoothing the tenseness from her body. Ann’s thighs relaxed and her legs opened wider. Her fists gripped the sheets, pulling them closer as Anne’s strokes deepened.

While her fingers lathered inside of her, Anne did as promised; her tongue wrote a poem.

The first few words were sweet and shy. The roughness that had creeped in before pulled back, and the tip of Anne’s tongue drew delicate, swirling shapes. Ann hummed, soft but constant, her eyes squeezed shut.

As her tongue caressed her, the words changed, growing in length and deepening their timbre. Ann ceased to hum, biting her pillow and smoothing her palms over the sheets, her fingers too weak to grip. Anne nipped her, then sucked, and Ann trembled beneath her.

Keeping her quick, feverish pace, Anne pressed a string of hungry, open-mouthed kisses from Ann’s hips to her jaw, her lips and nose still sticky with Ann’s wetness. Anne paused at her neck, nipping the delicate skin, her lips slipping over the wet trail of her tongue. The heavy scent of her own saliva stuck to Ann’s throat like a faint musk.

Tiny, crimson blotches bloomed where her teeth found purchase. She pulled away, then brushed her lips over each mark.

Ann squirmed under her, giggling. Through choked breaths and laughter, she scolded, “That tickles, Anne.”

Anne smirked, pressing their foreheads together. Ann’s mouth hung open against hers, her breaths hot and shuddering. Anne watched her expression, captivated. Delight spread like a blush across Ann’s face as she came. It touched her eyes, the muscles of her cheek, then her lips, and reached her throat with a low, gentle groan.

Anne kissed her gently. Ann’s eyes fluttered shut, her lashes batting Anne’s cheek.

I love you, Ann mouthed against her lips.

“I love you too,” she said.

Anne sat back on the pillow, tucking Ann under her arm. She brushed her long, golden hair with her fingers. Ann’s curls clung to her sweaty forehead. She smoothed away the hair around her face, admiring her tired eyes and deep, slow breaths.

Ann opened one eye, then closed it again. A grin crept across her lips.

“You’re watching me,” she said.

“You’re beautiful,” Anne explained. “Satisfied looks good on you, your majesty.”

Ann quipped, “And cocky looks good on you, my knight.”

Chapter Text

The first bits of dawn poured through triangles between the bare, frosted tree branches, and all the world glistened and sparkled. Each finger of sunlight reached greater lengths than it should, bouncing off the ever-moving gems of snow and newly-frosted morning dew.

It looked utterly fake, Ann thought, utterly unreal, and yet it was not.

Ann felt new and reborn, radiating heat like a newborn babe touched by the gods after birth. She was not covered in blood, but she was sweaty and warm, wrapped snugly in Anne’s arms. She was not screaming, yet she was overcome with the desire to declare herself to the world.

Ann stretched, and her knight stirred. Even asleep, she was handsome. Ann twirled a feathery gray lock of hair in her finger, then tucked it behind her ear. Light, chestnut strands lifted above her forehead with static, and Ann smoothed them down. She pressed a kiss to Anne’s dry, smooth lips, savoring their softness. She flushed when she tasted a bit of herself there still, and Anne smiled against her.

“Morning,” Anne mumbled, her eyes still closed.

“Morning, handsome,” Ann replied. She kissed her again.

Anne blinked the sleep from her eyes. “You’re very chipper today,” she observed with a small amount of disdain. “I’ve been led to believe you’re not a morning person.”

“And you’re grumpy today,” Ann countered, “As usual.”

“At least I’m consistent.”

Ann hummed, then shuffled the blankets out of the way to straddle her. Despite her rugged body and rough demeanor, Anne’s skin was soft. She sighed as the inside of her thighs met the sharp bulge of Anne’s hips, and sucked in a breath when the dark brown curls of Anne’s tuft brushed her. She sank in Anne’s lap, wanting to be closer.

A flush creeped up Anne’s neck and ears. “Again? So early in the morning?” Anne whispered, a hint of laughter in her voice.

Anne shifted to climb on top of her, but Ann stilled her with a touch, staring. It was the first time she’d seen her body without the flicker of candlelight or the strange, crisp light of the moon. Her scars were less deep and striking, a part of her flesh rather than the consequence of a terrible, violent event. Touched by sunlight, her skin had a warm, deep glow, and she seemed more human than figure, more woman than knight.

“This is nice,” Ann explained. She leaned in to kiss her. Their lips touched, and she added, “I can see you better in this light. All your blushing. And your handsome face.”

“Hmm. Handsome in what way?”

Ann smirked. “Your jaw,” she said. She traced the jut of it with her finger from her chin to her ear, and back again. So smooth and sharp, even its shape made her thighs ache. “Your jaw is perfect. You could cut me with it, and I would only ask you to keep going. I think about it pressing on the skin of my thigh. Very handsome.”

“And?”

Ann smoothed her finger over Anne’s lips. “These full, wonderful lips. One would hesitate to call them puckered or feminine, so they can only be called handsome,” Ann said. She bit Anne’s bottom lip gently. “And I now have firsthand knowledge of the things they can do to a woman. And when she can taste herself on them? Very, very handsome.”

Anne grinned. “Where is all this coming from?”

“You like it when I talk,” Ann said. “You blush.”

“Hmm. I suppose I do. My queen is very observant.”

“I haven’t quite finished observing,” Ann informed her.

Anne’s grin widened. “Go on, then.”

“Your deep, dark brown eyes. Every time you walked into the room, Ser Lister, even as a young girl, I was struck by your eyes. I was afraid you could see all the way into my soul at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and already inappropriately lusting after such a handsome, dashing knight.”

“Quite inappropriate,” Anne agreed.

Her long, calloused fingers brushed up and down Ann’s legs. Each touch left a trail of prickling warmth. It was almost too much when Anne squeezed her, pulling her close, and Ann balanced herself by gripping her shoulders.

“I can’t tell you how often I daydreamed about what these shoulders felt like,” Ann admitted. “Your entire body, really. And what it would be like to kiss you. I was utterly smitten by the thought of you. I thought you were such a gallant and lovely thing.”

“I’m being showered in compliments this morning. You must have enjoyed yourself last night, your majesty,” Anne said smugly.

“Oh, yes,” she gushed. “Yes.”

It would be a childish thing to say, but Ann never wanted the morning to end. She was caught in a mix of replaying her memories of the night before, of the burst of warmth and pleasure radiating from her very soul to her fingertips, and the woman before her at present, touching her legs, playing with her hair, granting her kisses whenever—and wherever—she wished.

After a moment, an hour, or a decade—Ann wasn’t sure which—Anne sat up. She said, “My darling, I must leave. I have things to do.”

“Oh, please don’t. Not yet,” she begged.

Anne’s eyes flickered towards the door.

“Your maids—”

“I’ll tell them I’m sleeping in a while longer,” Ann said gently. “I was up late last night, after all. For the kingdom.”

“If I could give you heirs, that might hold some truth,” Anne said, chuckling.

Ann flushed. “Oh, I’m rather glad you can’t,” she said, grimacing. The thought of holding a child, of giving birth, repulsed her. “That would take all the fun out of this and replace it with—” she searched for the correct word, “—with anxiety.”

“I think you would make a good mother,” Anne said, smiling. “You wouldn’t have to give birth. There are motherless children all around the kingdom.”

“Why would you think that?” she sputtered. The room was unpleasantly warm.

“You’re kind,” Anne said. Her smile faded to concern. “That’s all I mean. You have a good temperament for it.”

“Oh, I don’t think I would,” Ann said. She worried her sleeve, picking at the loose threads. “Not—not because I’m not kind enough, or—or not good enough, I just—” she froze, staring at Anne.
“Why?” Anne prodded gently. She rested a hand over Ann’s.

“Well, I just—I feel like, a good parent should—should want to be a parent,” she stammered. “I’ve never wanted children. They’re loud, they’re a lot of energy, they’re more than—the pleasant bits you see, when you get to hold them, and hear them try to talk and such. I see my sister, and her three little ones, and, well, she seems happy enough, and I’d never tell her to her face, but—I don’t want her life. I don’t think it’s for me.”

Ann realized she’d rambled, and bowed her head. A single tear fell down her face.

Anne cupped her cheek. She smoothed the tear away with her thumb. Gently, she asked, “Why are you crying?”

Ann touched the hand caressing her face. She closed her eyes, finding solace in her warmth, and steadied herself with a breath. She said, “I don’t want to upset you. This isn’t a deal breaker, is it? I’m not—I’m not sure if I’ll change my mind, or if I’ll change it and then change back. I don’t want—I don’t want you to feel like you’ve missed out—”

“Ann,” Ann quieted her softly. “I made oaths to never marry or have children, so long as I’m in your service. I serve you, the queen, for life. If I felt that having a child was necessary for my vision of life I’d—well, I’d have never taken the oath, would I?”

“I suppose it is silly, talking about this when you have oaths forbidding it,” Ann said, blushing from embarrassment.

“Not silly at all. It’s a necessary conversation, and a good one. Perhaps there would come a time where I’d fear that I’m taking something away from your life, something you desperately wanted and unfairly sacrificed for me. Now I know otherwise,” Anne assured her.

Ann giggled the remnants of her anxiety away. “If only it were as easy to convince my family. They’ll pester me about heirs for the rest of my life, as though they have a stake in it. I’m at the point of throwing a dart and choosing the first person it hits as my successor, just to be finished with the matter. Or naming Elizabeth officially, though I do hate to hand her family control of another kingdom. Merging kingdoms can be a violent process,” she finished, wincing.

“Throwing a dart makes just as much sense as choosing a leader based on birth,” Anne agreed. “Except, the gods ordained you, I suppose, so maybe it’s not a very apt comparison.”

Ann frowned. She said, “I don’t know, I’ve never felt particularly blessed. In a spiritual way, I mean. I feel as touched and connected to the gods as anyone else.”

“Even when you’re taking vows from a kingsguard?”

“That’s different!” Ann protested. “That’s an oath. The gods are always present during those. It’s not like its channeled through me, or because of me, or anything. You were as much a vessel in that ceremony as I.”

“If you say so,” Anne said absently.

She brushed Ann’s hair with her fingers, her nails gently scratching her head, behind her ears, her neck. Anne lifted her chin with a finger. Ann couldn’t look away from her lips.
Anne pressed a kiss to her nose and said, “I really should be going, darling. My men will start to wonder where I’ve been.”

Ann pouted. “But you’ll be on duty later? During the meeting with William?”

“Of course.”

“And will you stay inside the room?” she asked meekly. “Oh, I know he’ll have words for what I said to my aunt. You being inside would help me feel a bit braver.”

Anne smiled. “Of course.”

With the sun fully in the sky, her blankets delightfully ruffled, and her pillow smelling of Anne, Ann felt herself eager to begin her day. Even with the looming anxiety of confronting her cousin, she felt like a bird singing; her heart was full.

***

William did not share her bright mood. Not only did he sit in the chair across from her scowling and rigid as a held breath, but every smile and giggle from her lips seemed to perturb him even more. Twice he caught her eyes flicking toward Anne, whose expression remained unaffected by the attention. The only hint of her enjoyment was the flex of her jaw, suppressing a smile.

“All that’s left is your weekly update from General Rawson, Ann,” William said, unfolding the letter.

Despite her wonderful mood, Ann eyed the broken seal with disdain. “I would like you to please address me as ‘your majesty,’ William, in these meetings, so there is no confusion.”

William blinked. “I’m—I’m sorry? Confusion about what?”

Perhaps it was the joy radiating from her insides or Anne’s presence, or a combination of both, but when Ann tapped into her heart for courage, she found a well of it.

“‘Confusion about what, your majesty,’” Ann corrected coolly. “Confusion about whether we are discussing personal family matters or matters of the state. In this room, you are my advisor, not my cousin. You are not to invite my aunt here—or any family member—to badger me into agreeing with your position. I’ll hear your opinion, and I’m grateful for it, but I wear the crown here, William, not you.”

“I—yes, your majesty.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. Ann never spoke so bluntly with him before. She felt a bit like Anne, and balked at the confidence singing within her. Her instinct was to turn it away, and return to her more comfortable, meek demeanor, but the smile from Anne at the door urged her forward.

Ann continued, “And one more thing. You are not to break the seal on anything addressed to me when not in my presence. If there are people—especially nobility—within my own kingdom who feel the need to manipulate and assassinate me, I feel we should prioritize security. Keep our cards close. You bring them to me, and we’ll break the seal together.”

“Yes, that’s quite right, your majesty,” he agreed quietly. “Very wise.”

“What is the update?” she said, relaxing in her chair.

The letter trembled in his hands while he summarized it. “The first few days of travel seem to have gone well, your majesty. They were able to attain adequate provisions, men, and materials in record time. He’s hired a quartermaster and scouts to eliminate the need for significant help from the capital during the winter months. He expects them to be largely self-sufficient, living off the land.”

“That sounds…initially expensive, but better for the long term,” Ann said. When William nodded in agreement, she continued. “Good. When does he expect to arrive?”

“Not for a few months, your majesty. Considering they’re building bridges and repairing roads as they go.”

Ann said, “That’s fine. This is largely to distract them while we are at peace. He can take as long as he likes. Write back and tell him, within his updates, that I would like a record of which roads were fixed and where bridges were built along the rivers. And I’d like to order a new map to keep track of it all.”

William nodded, jotting down her instructions.

“Oh! And with good inking, please. If we’re going to be looking at it all the time, it might as well be pretty,” she said. “Add a postscript to the general that road-building and infrastructure may not have so much glory as conquest, but it does leave a legacy, and allows a nation to prosper.”

“Sure, Ann—your majesty,” he said. “May I—I do have one suggestion. He’s left you with only two-thousand soldiers to defend the city if anything occurs. I would consider giving the city guard extra training, in case the worst were to happen.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. But I don’t believe we’re done,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “To revisit the topic of Duke Ainsworth. Do you think he’ll come?”

“I...don’t your majesty,” he said. “If he is indeed guilty, and even if he isn’t, the sorcerers’ and Ser Lister’s testimonies are sufficient enough evidence against him. And if he chose to do a combat trial, well, it’s not as though the winner would be in question, is it?” he finished, eyeing Anne.

“And what should I do, in the event that he doesn’t?”

He pursed his lips. “Well, by disobeying your summons, he marks himself an enemy of the crown. He would be wanted for treason in that regard, on top of his charges, which are...also treason.”

“I suppose when you’ve committed treason once, you might as well do it again,” Ann reasoned. “It’s not as though the punishment can be delivered twice.”

“Yes, well. You have a few options, if he chooses not to obey the summons. You can set a bounty for his capture, dead or alive, and someone may bring him in in time. You can also hire a mercenary to search for him directly and bring him to justice,” he said.

“And which would you recommend?”

William said, “The bounty is less work for us. We could easily come up with the gold for his capture. The only downside is that if he leaves the kingdom, he will likely never be found.”

Ann turned to her knight, still and imposing, like a regal statue. “Ser Lister, what would you do, if you were in my place?”

“I would hunt him down,” she answered immediately. “And not allow him to escape. If he has connections to this group of sorcerers, who else might he have connections with, and how far is he willing to go? He is too dangerous.”

“You’ve thought about this,” Ann said.

“Every single moment since I’ve learned the truth,” she said. “I have dreamt about bringing him to justice.”

“The oaths must be a powerful thing,” Ann murmured, conscious of her cousin watching them.

Anne grip tightened on the pommel of her sword. Her eyes rested on the wall behind Ann. It was for the best; they burned with a fury Ann had never seen in the knight before. She was almost afraid. Almost.

Anne said, “The oaths go deeper than blood, your majesty. They sing in my soul. They do not tell me what is right and wrong, but their presence stirs my gut, and begs me to act.”

“Well. In a week or less, the duke will decide his own fate, and we will bring him to justice regardless,” Ann assured her.

Anne met her eyes. The desperate anger in them shocked her. “We will,” she agreed. “And he will never hurt you again.”

***

Days passed, and the Duke Ainsworth didn’t show.

Anne scraped her sword with the whetstone, allowing herself to feel—not for the first time—what it might be like to hunt and bring him to justice.

She never understood the excitement of hunting animals for sport, of spending days in the woodlands with crossbows, wine, and the company of men. There was no purpose to her, when there were things to do at home, and a meal already set at the table. It was gluttony.

Human beings were truly animals. The blade of a knife could snap tendons, arteries, veins, and saw through bones. A sword could do worse. As a soldier, Anne learned the truth that all men were meat.

If Anne found the duke, she would demand a duel to the death. He would brandish his thin, silly sword, Anne would slap it out of his hand like a toy, and finish him. The entire ordeal would be true, fair, and just, and her queen would be safe. Ann would be safe.

Only the gods’ will could turn the fight against her. If they did, she would rather be dead, anyway, then carry out oaths bound by creatures so unjust.

On the seventh day, Anne stood beside her queen. Her armor reflected the sun and shone through the hall like a beacon. She was polished, ready, willing. She had a proposal for her queen, one she was certain to refuse. Ann seemed to notice her distance throughout the week, her quiet calculation, and the way her ferocity grew like a storm within her. Anne could not explain it, except that it was the will of the gods flourishing within her, as bright and radiant as a new sun. She had even prayed to calm the tempest, and it stoked it instead.

Anne did not visit her in those nights, even though she wanted to. Even in sparring, she found herself rough and headstrong when she should be delicate and graceful; she was quick, brutal, and efficient when it was instead correct to test the endurance of her duelling partner. She was out of sorts in a way that would worry Ann if she knew.

The hall was prepared for the trial. Local lords and ladies sat in the audience, waiting.

The sorcerers sat chained in their own pulpit. They were sniveling men, weak-willed things who took on a task greater than their abilities to achieve positions they didn’t deserve. Ann was smitten with them, enchanted by even the smallest fragments of their abilities. Anne felt that if there were better men, it would be more worthwhile to seek them out and learn from them instead.

If Anne were queen, she would cut their throats now and be done with them. No one would miss them. No one would question the efficiency of the choice, and the justice served. Yet Ann seemed preoccupied with mercy, and whether the men were guilty in heart, as though the gods lived within her always, and kept her moral compass true. Perhaps they did.

When the clock tolled and the duke did not arrive, the room quietly disassembled.

Beside her, the queen remained seated. The only sign of her turmoil was the white of her knuckles as they gripped the arms of her throne. Each person filtered out, until finally it was the queen, Priestly, and the kingsguard.

“I suppose it’s time to make a decision,” Ann finally said. “I’ve given it some thought, and I want to do both. Set a bounty, but not too high. I don’t want to put him on alert to leave the country right away, if possible. Just high enough for him to think he’s not being hunted. And I want to hire a mercenary. Someone good. Someone the duke will have a difficult time trying to buy off.”

“Of course,” Priestly said. “The only thing is, it will take time. To find the right person and strike an agreement. Especially discreetly. Those people also deal in information, A—your majesty. We have the funds to do so, but you should know that it will be costly. Especially since every day we spend searching, Duke Ainsworth might get farther away.”

“Do I have a choice?” Ann said, wilting. “Every day he’s free—I fear repurcission. He’ll surely try to kill me again.”

“Your majesty,” Anne whispered. “I have a suggestion. A request. It might even be more accurate to call it a plea.”

Ann turned to her, concerned. “What is it, captain?”

Anne fell to her knees, her head bowed toward the floor.

“Ordinary men and knights can be bought and manipulated, your majesty. Only your kingsguard are bound by sacred oaths,” Anne said. “Choose me to bring the Duke Ainsworth to justice. He has neglected his chance for a trial, and so admits his guilt. I will find him and execute him for treason in your name. You needn’t pay me anything. I ask only for the honor, and your blessing.”

Anne felt Corgingley’s gaze on her. She imagined her lips in a round O like an awestruck fool. This would prove that Anne would never abandon her oaths, that the power of the gods was within her, and her love for the queen only strengthened the bond between them created by the oaths. It would provide relief.

And she hated Cordingley, for forcing her to prove it to herself.

Ann didn’t answer. Anne looked up, meeting her eyes, her own brimming with conviction.

The girl looked utterly heartbroken. Anne’s gut sank with guilt. How suspicious it would look for her to refuse!

Eyebrows furrowed, she said, “Ser Lister, I—I could be short a kingsguard for months. And my captain, no less. Do you not feel m-my safety is prudent?”

Ann’s lovely face—the look in her eyes, the crooked curve of her lips, the wrinkle of worry between her eyebrows—made it difficult to not crumble to her will. Anne was only so strong. Filled the oaths, and conviction, and faith that she was doing right in the world, yes, but only a human being.

With a deep breath, Anne promised, “Your safety is paramount, your majesty. That is why I trust only me to do the job correctly. When I pledged my oaths, I pledged my mind, body, and spirit, and I pledged to wield justice in your name. I feel filled with that purpose now; it is my calling. I will be swift and just. There will be no torture for the duke.”

“I—” For a moment, Ann looked as though she might refuse. But the gaze of her cousin and the rest of the kingsguard upon her steeled her. “I accept your offer, Ser Lister. Leave in the morning, and come back to me soon.”

“As you command, your majesty,” Anne said.

***

Later that night, Anne crept into Ann’s room to say goodbye.

Ann couldn’t find it in her heart to be mad. She wanted to be, because Anne was infuriating, thrusting that upon her in the moment when she couldn’t refuse, even though she desperately wanted to. Ann could only treat her with dizzying softness, as though the more carefully she held her, the gods would know her importance, and spare her life when it mattered.

They spoke few words. Between them, there was only the paralyzing sadness of goodbye. Anne might be gone for days or weeks or months, with only letters between them. Letters others might read, and so there was no room for romance or tenderness. Ann ached already, and Anne was still in her arms, kissing her lips, between her legs.

“I love you. Keep yourself safe for me,” she said.

Anne gathered her into a long hug. The woodsy smell of her filled Ann’s lungs. She wanted to drown in it. There were so many moments she wanted to stay in forever. With all her heart, every ounce of her willpower, she begged the gods to stop the flow of time, just for her.

They did not. Whether they could and did not, or commanded no control over its passage, it didn’t matter.

“I’ll do what I can, darling,” Anne murmured into her hair.

Ann treasured the last touch of her lips. She held onto its buzz on her skin until it faded, and then she sank under the cover of her blanket and wept.

Chapter Text

Of all the crimes Duke Ainsworth committed, taking her knight away was the cruelest.

If he had only come at Ann’s decree! If he wasn’t a coward, and faced his trial and punishment with courage, Anne would still be with her. Why were the strong and good always punished for the weakness of the wicked? Where was mercy for the kind and the loving? Ann didn’t know. Always, she tried her best. Always, she steeled herself against the things that would corrupt her softness.

A backwards metaphor, maybe. How could hardness protect softness without destroying it? But as her resolve waned, she knew it was true. Ann wanted her knight. Her mercy when the world was cruel. Her safety and respite in a never-ending storm. She wanted more than her spirit or memory; Ann wanted her body, tall, muscular, gentle, always seeming bigger than she was.

The desk in front of her was hers, finally. Ann no longer felt like a child playing pretend. She stared at the two sealed letters William placed before her, one with disdain, and one with longing. As a child learns to eat their vegetables first and turns back to sweets as an adult, she plucked Anne’s letter from its place and broke the seal.

In the three months she’d been gone, Anne sent six letters. The first few were updates to the itinerary, recordings of lodgings, and mundane bits of the investigation. The knight’s formality saddened Ann, but she understood why it was so. This letter was no different.

Ann read aloud, “Your majesty, travel remains slow. The roads are wet and rough, as the rain hasn’t ceased for at least a week. If the duke was in his lands at any point after your summons, he has surely fled them now. I follow a lead to the South, near the sea. As he eludes me, I grow weary. To eliminate any possible subterfuge, I am now taking my letters directly, and burning them afterword. I hope this brings you comfort.”

Perhaps there was too much affection in her voice, because William frowned.

“You miss her,” he observed. 

Ann started. “Er—yes. I’ve known her since I was a child. She has a presence here, don’t you think? The other kingsguard certainly feel her absence.”

“It’s not good to get attached to your servants and guards, Ann,” he scolded gently. “I know you’re not a child. I’m saying this as your advisor. If it makes it more difficult to ask them to do their duty, you might be too close.”

“She’s my friend,” Ann said.

“Ser Lister the sworn captain of your guard first, and your friend second,” William reminded her. “She may not be back for months, or years. The worst could happen—an accident, anything—and she could not come back at all. You need to be prepared for that.”

“I allowed her to go, didn’t I?” Ann argued, her cheeks burning. “She asked, and I allowed it. Our friendship didn’t prevent her from doing her duty.”

“I’m not—I‘m not trying to scold you like a child. But it needs to be said. You allowed it, but the captain was on her knees begging you, your majesty. And you looked—” William’s eyes widened, then he narrowed them at her. “Oh, Ann. You haven’t…?”

Ann’s heart raced in her chest. She couldn’t even bring herself to scold him for forgetting her title.

“Haven’t what?” She whispered to keep her voice from trembling.

William pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is why you continually resist marriage. It all makes sense,” he groaned.

“William, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” she choked. Not very convincing.

He groaned, rubbing his temple. “You cannot pursue a relationship with her, do you understand? First, she’s your kingsguard. She’s employed to you, and has oaths binding her to you. If you do, you will be rejected. I’m only looking out for you, and I’m sorry—you will be rejected, Ann. She has oaths.”

“Yes, I know,” she said immediately. She bit her lip. “But, what if—theoretically—we never have to marry. Is there not room for a different understanding? If she was willing, I mean. If, somehow, something were to happen—"

“I—well, that would be—a highly, highly inappropriate relationship,” he sputtered. “Gods, your Aunt Ann would—I hate to say it but—it might kill her. Her niece, the queen, be a consort to a knight in her own kingsguard? And at the cost of a legitimate marriage!—no. No. Absolutely not. You must get over this, Ann. It’s good that she’s gone.”

“But what if we—not saying there’s a ‘we,’ or that she knows of my feelings at all—what if we loved each other? Wouldn’t that—I don’t know—change things?” Ann protested. 

“Love!” he scoffed, bewildered. “That’s a bit far off, isn’t it? But, I suppose, you’ve always had a bit of an imagination…no, Ann. It wouldn’t change things. Part of being queen is having a duty to your kingdom. Sometimes duty requires sacrifice. If you loved Ser—anyone, even, that wasn’t appropriate, love wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Then I suppose it is good she’s gone,” Ann echoed, though there was no truth to her agreement.

William sighed, blotting his forehead with a handkerchief, as though he’d just run a distance. “Good, good,” he said. “I’m glad you agree, your majesty, that’s—that can be a hard thing to come to terms with. Your parents were very lucky to have loved each other. It often isn’t like that. In your situation, you have to make a choice to love someone, especially someone you don’t click with straight away.”

“Yes,” Ann said, wanting the conversation to be finished.

“Let’s see what the general’s up to, shall we?”

Ann opened the letter mechanically. She skimmed the pages without comprehending what they said, so she read them over again. General Rawson’s scribe always did have terrible penmanship.

She read, “Your majesty, we have just arrived in the northwestern territory. Winter is in full force here, and the roads are more terrible than we ever imagined, no doubt made worse by the feet of snowfall it has seen in the last few weeks. Most roads aren’t roads at all, but trails made by deer through the forests and streams.

“We have shared our food and supplies with the locals, whose herds were stolen in the month before we arrived by the savages to the west. Most of our work here will be humanitarian until the spring. However, we feel this is the perfect time to begin the construction of two or three bridges along the river. I have marked their location on the attached map. We will begin construction next week.”

Ann handed the letter to William to look it over. She said, “It seems good to me. Though I’m worried about the savages, and the long term health of those people. What will happen when the soldiers leave?”

“When the soldiers leave, they will likely go back to normal, your majesty. The savages will take everything they have, over and over. It is the way of things up there, and why it is notoriously difficult to live there. They shouldn’t live there at all, really, but instead relocate to a larger town with a guard,” William said.

Ann bit her cheek. “Instruct him to find out what it is the villagers lack to defend themselves. Weapons? Numbers? Skill? See if we can’t help them defend in future. I’d like the savages to not move into the territory. Those villagers are our first line of defense. I pity their difficult lives,” she said.

“Yes, your majesty, I can. What would you like me to write to Ser Lister?”

“I can write a reply,” Ann said. “And I will apologize to her, for allowing our friendship to get in the way of her duty. I will say that I am still growing into my role, and the mistake won’t happen again. It will be more personal in my script.”

William nodded his head. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea.”

When he left, Ann opened Anne’s letter again. She traced her finger over the knight’s nigh-unreadable scrawl. The indents of her pen were almost like proof that she had touched the parchment. The formal words lost their meaning, and Ann only wanted her voice. Her warmth. Her.

She would read Anne’s letters privately from now on, no matter what it looked like. Ann dipped her pen in the ink and began to write.

***

My love,

Your letter back was very kind. I tired quickly of our formal, impersonal language. I miss you, too. And I love you. How I’ve longed for months to write those words. It feels like a deep breath out to write them, a relief. I miss you. I love you. How does it feel to read them?

I do not have fond memories of the sea. For years, I’ve succeeded in avoiding it. It has been a decade or more. I have grown much since then, and am in a happier state of mind. That has helped things. I also know what to avoid. Do not worry for me in this regard; experience is the wisest teacher, time the kindest healer, and love the most patient strength. I have all of these things to guide me, and you are forever in the forefront of my thoughts, doing the same.

The sea is an otherworldly thing. The gulls and fish and ships all look the same, and so it is impossible to tell how many there are as they fly overhead or sail at the rim of the horizon. I am tossed and confused, like the waves themselves. My old fears and my new resolve are at war. I don’t want to be afraid, yet sometimes I am, an instinct that yearns to tear me apart from the inside. 

Is this how you felt during those storms, so many months ago? Helpless, frustrated, alone, your mind a separate being from your body, yet doomed to weather its throes. Knowing you suffered so long gives me the strength to persist. Our love is my strength. Do you see? In the chaos of both world and heart, I go to thoughts of you for comfort and mercy.

Standing at its edge, looking out into the vast blue, one can only wonder how massive our world truly is. There was a time when I wanted to see all of it. I am reminded of that time now, like a distant pull, but to follow it would be to abandon my heritage, my purpose, my very soul, and you. And if the gods follow me after this land has become a distant speck, so will thoughts of you, for you are greater and more ethereal than them all. 

And I miss you. To never see you again would be to allow my soul to wither away. I have watched others die of starvation, dehydration, and bleeding out—this kind of death would be slower, and infinitely more painful. You are the keeper of my heart. You are the center of me. Everything radiates from you; when the sun touches my face, I know it touches yours; when the morning dew collects on the leaves of grass in these southern lands, I know the drops were once snow on your lashes; when I see my likeness in a mirror and think it handsome, I know the seed of that was sown by you, and flourishes within me now, proof of your warmth and kindness.

I will return to you as soon as I can. Leaving, and begging you to let me leave, was the act of a fool. I long to protect you by holding you in my arms. The symbolism of slaying the despicable coward with my sword in your name and the name of the gods holds no candle to easing your anxiety with a touch or a smile. What is justice compared to your love?

I know you must think that my resolve wanes. That my sense of duty has somehow faded because thoughts of you cloud my mind. That is not so, my love, for that is what motivates me. I am sharp and determined. There is no better motivator than the promise of your kiss upon my return.

I love you, darling. And I miss you. We will see each other soon.

—AL  

***

Ann held the letter and cried, careful to keep the parchment away from the tears dribbling from the end of her nose.

Since Anne’s absence, Ann had yet to finish a painting. She abandoned landscapes after painting the soft blues of sky and slate gray mountain peaks. Portraits were faceless blobs with throats and jaws. Bowls bore no fruit and bottles were empty of wine in her still-life paintings. Her hand felt emptier with a paintbrush in it than without.

How could Anne find beauty in the simplest of things? Everything that once held joy for Ann was licked clean. Food tasted of nothing. Even sweet wines were unbearably bitter. Ann felt hallow, a husk with nothing in it, and encased in a layer of crust that would dissipate—and her body with it—at the slightest touch. Ann struggled to find purpose even in the thing Anne would claim the most valuable of things—her own life.

Anne’s letter was the only thing getting her through. Cradling it to her chest, she whispered, “I miss you, I love you. I love you. I’ll get out of bed soon. I promise.”

She’d received the letter seven months ago. More came, just as romantic and kind, but none that touched Ann so deeply. Perhaps it was because this was the only one where Anne said she was afraid. It made Ann feel less weak and foolish. Less terrified and alone. 

The parchment was already worn in places from the worrying of her fingers. It was perpetually warm from being pressed against her breast. Anne’s signature had faded from the many times she touched it, running her finger over it like a prayer.

The task of moving her feet from the mattress to the floor was an arduous thing. Her body was too heavy for her will to lift it. Was it the nightgown? Her own skin? Perhaps her bones turned to iron in the night, or her muscles collapsed into dust. Perhaps her body was perfectly fine, and there was nothing she could do.

Ann closed her eyes, for a moment, just to rest.

***

A year had passed since Anne left. Her knight travelled from kingdom to kingdom, posting ever increasing ransoms and tracking his movements. Anne’s letters came regularly, but the duke evaded justice at every turn. 

Ann sighed, fitting Anne’s most recent letter into her drawer. 

“Nothing,” she informed her cousin. “Lovely descriptions of my sister’s kingdom, a rather troublesome encounter with a charlatan, and a new lead on, um, a route he’s supposedly been travelling.”

“That’s good,” William said unhelpfully.

“It’ll probably be useless, like all the rest. It’s been a year, William. Perhaps I should ask her to abandon the chase, and come back. I still don’t like being short a kingsguard. Washtington does well as a captain it’s just...something’s missing.”

William bit the inside of his cheek. “Give it another month. See where this lead goes, then propose the idea to Ser Lister. If she feels similarly hopeless, yes, then maybe it’s for the best. Did you read over Rawson’s report?”

“I did. He’s requisitioned more weapons and armor,” Ann observed. “Why?”

“For the locals, he says. They had a shortage of supplies, and he’s outfitting them and giving them training, at the price of a three-year enlistment,” William said, looking over the letter again. “Do you have objections?”

Ann pursed her lips. “No, I suppose it seems fair enough. I was thinking more along the lines of there not being a price attached to the aid since they’re our people, but…if they’re willing, and the general thinks it’s best, I won’t fight him on this. I will just be more clear next time.”

William read on, his eyes narrowing.

“What?” Ann asked.

“Hmm. It says here that the tribes in the Unclaimed Hills have been organizing strikes while the soldiers work the roads near the border. But—well, they never struck me as the type to attack trained soldiers. It’s pretty obvious that Rawson and his men are there for a limited time. Why wouldn’t they just wait?” William said.

“Could it be that they’re desperate for some reason?” Ann suggested.

He said, “It doesn’t say, but I would presume as much.”

“Perhaps I should call them back, too. If it’s getting so dangerous,” Ann wondered aloud.

“I don’t think that would be wise, your majesty,” he began. After she nodded, he continued, “As you said, they have a purpose. They’re helping those villagers, and doing some good. They can handle a bit of combat, here and there. If it looks like it may turn to all-out war—which I doubt—the general will let you know.”

In the last year, Ann grew as a queen. She learned when to take William’s advice, when he was biased, and how to pull the strands of logic from him. Ann chose to trust him in this.

“Yes,” Ann agreed. “Thank you.”

***

Anne once encountered a curious spirit in the wind that used a ring of leaves to keep its shape. It found her fresh after a battle, sewing her own wound shut. She had tears in her eyes; she wasn’t sure what it was, at first. Her pain was unbearable. The tender flesh under her trembling fingers stung with a pain that churned her gut each time she pulled the needle through. The makeshift thread was thick and grating. She would never forget the way it scraped and tugged her skin.

The creature empathized with her pain. It could not help her, for its fingers were nothing but leaves and bottled wind. But it hovered beside her, distracting her with questions and observations that seemed nonsensical at the time. It was a kind thing, its voice musical and alien, like the sound of the ocean in a shell.

The spirit touched her heart with a kindness she never knew again until Ann. Perhaps it loved her. In the dark of the forest, where the moon struggled to peek through the trees but threw what light it could across the snow, its words returned to her. Nonsensical but comforting, like a god speaking to a mortal who couldn’t understand.

It said, “You think time is like a river flowing East. Twisting, turning, maybe. Brutal and then slow. But always one direction. Unstoppable. Something that, once it happens, is gone forever. Nothing you can do. Yes?”

“Yes,” Anne agreed, her eyes stinging with tears. She pulled the needle through, gasping. “Time is like a river.”

“Mmm. No, time is not really like that. Time is the sky of stars above you. Always happening. Constant, together. Right now, you are holding her hand. At birth, you were holding her hand. When you die, you will hold her hand. Thousands of years before your birth, when the universe began, you were with her. You will be together when the universe ends, thousands of years after your deaths. Do you see?”

“No,” Anne had said. Her voice cracked. “’Her’ who? What are you talking about? Eliza?”

It shied away from her. “Ah. You are confused, not comforted. I thought maybe. Perhaps it would ease the pain. To know it was happening now.”

“She’s—here?”

“No, no. Happening now. Another—” she pointed at the sky, a leaf twirling up. “Another star. Do you see?”

Anne did not. 

But now, years later, Anne felt she had a greater understanding. Wherever she was in the world, however long it took her to bring the duke to justice, there was always Ann. 

If it was true that all the events in time happened simultaneously and not in the linear way she perceived, she and Ann were together right now. Ann held her hand. Kissed her lips. The warmth of her in another star brought her some amount of comfort. 

Enough peace to sleep.

***

When William met Ann in her study four hours early with a frightened messenger at his side, a headache began to form between her eyes.

William stood in the frame, a scroll of parchment in his fist. He looked distressed or angry, his jaw locked and chest swelling with deep, measured breaths. The messenger next to him couldn’t have been older than twelve. Tattered rags hung from thin limbs, and he wore no shoes. He trembled in Ann’s presence, sinking to the floor in a bow, as though he’d never bowed to anyone before.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, her eyes flickering to the messenger.

“No, your majesty,” William said quietly. “This young man was a crier in the street, sent by the general himself to spread word of his exploits.”

“‘Exploits?’ Why does the general have ‘exploits?’” she said.

William grit his teeth. “Apparently, General Rawson and his soldiers have engaged the savages,” he informed her. “Based on what this young man and his document were saying—it’s more than skirmishes and scouts going missing. These are battle reports, your majesty.”

Ann steadied herself with a breath. “And you brought the crier in because…?”

“I thought you might want to hear for yourself. But the boy is too nervous and I no longer have the patience. I fear we have a long few days ahead of us.”

The boy cowered at the mention of the soldiers. Ann fought the instinct to reach out and comfort him.

“How many of him are there? Criers, I mean,” she asked.

“In our city? Dozens. I don’t doubt he has them placed throughout the kingdom, too.”

Ann thanked a servant as she set the tea tray down on the desk. She touched her arm, and pointed to the boy.

“Take him to the kitchens and feed him,” Ann directed. To the boy, she added, “Do you have a family?”

“Y-yes, ma’am. Th-there are s-six of us,” he squeaked.

William clicked his tongue. He said, “You address her as ‘your majesty,’ boy, you are speaking to the queen.”

Ann quieted him with a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Take enough home for them, too. Whatever you want. As long as you promise to try the little blackberry pastries—they’re my favorite,” she informed him, winking.

“Thank you, your majesty, ma’am,” he said, nodding furiously.

The boy left with the servant, and William closed the door behind them. He handed the crumpled scroll to her and said, “This is very bad, your majesty.”

Ann took the scroll. “How bad? Surely there’s a message from him directly, perhaps explaining the situation?”

“Yes,” he dug in his pocket to retrieve it. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if it says nearly the same thing these criers have been pouring into the streets. Less grandiose, maybe. But Rawson isn’t an idiot, he knows you’ll read this after the message has spread over the city.”

Ann’s heart sank. “He’s going against my orders. Did he say why? What pushed them to combat?” she demanded. She handed him the letter back in a flourish. “Read this for me, it’s too early, I—I can’t—”

While William read, her mind buzzed with anxiety. She didn’t want to think about how many soldiers perished in the fighting, swords and crossbows clasped in their hands, paralyzed with fear against faceless enemies from the Unclaimed Hills. How many of them were like her knight, fierce against any enemy? Did that matter? Ann mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that Anne wasn’t there any longer. 

Anne said that soldiers fight battles and wars without question. That they often had no other choice, but to put food on the table for their families. How many enlisted, leaving their homes because of poverty and the threat of starvation? 

If what Anne said was true, most of the women and men in her army joined out of desperation, not duty. It was no mercy from the gods to ask of them to die in pointless, needless wars, instead of living peaceful lives with their families. It was cruelty itself that so many should die for nothing but another’s greed and lust for power.

Ann’s gut churned at the thought. She tried her best to prevent this, and it hadn’t mattered at all.

“The letter is similar, but more detailed, your majesty. The general has written as though you’ve ordered the attacks and nothing is wrong,” he said matter-of-factly. Did he not understand?

“How many died?” she whispered.

“Quite—quite a number on our side, I’m afraid. High casualties. I’m only using educated guesses, but I presume the terrain is harsh and unfamiliar to many of the newer soldiers, and the savages use clubs, traps—things that tend to be difficult to heal. They leave wounds easily infected. And then taking care of the wounded takes time and men and supplies and—over the days and weeks, it takes its toll.”

“Let’s not call them savages,” Ann said. “But rather what they are. They’re people, following a lord that wants to expand their empire. They didn’t ask for it. They have no part in this; we have no need to pretend they’re less than human.”

“Well, actually, your majesty, they’re each part of different bands and tribes. There is no central leader. It is their way to follow no one. They’re all complicit,” he said.

Ann curled her lip. She said, “Then perhaps I’ll command the general to surrender to them. If their people have autonomy, they’re better off, aren’t they? Freer? If we must fight, why should we win? What makes us better, William?”

“This isn’t exactly relevant, your—”

“No, I think it’s important that we interrogate this. It’s a simple question, William. Why are we better? What is there to be gained from winning? Is it to boost General Rawson’s wealth and legacy, as well as my own? Is it so the dukes’ sons and daughters can claim glory? Why are these things always defined by war?” she said, almost yelling, her voice trembling with fury.

“I—Ann. This is a conversation to have with General Rawson. He will arrive by the end of the month, as this letter states. The thing we very much need to discuss is that he disobeyed direct orders from you. That’s treason.”

“Then I’ll execute him,” she spat.

William sucked his teeth. “And you have every right to, but—well, it’s a bit more complicated than that. There are numerous paths. This is very sensitive. A very difficult decision.”

“You are my advisor,” Ann reminded him fiercely. “Advise me!”

He cleared his throat, then said, “Well, your majesty, when he returns, you have two choices. You can welcome him home and hail him as a hero for defeating age-old enemies and freeing a territory from folk that have tormented the area for centuries—which, I know you disagree with that narrative, but that’s the one he and most of the country sees. Largely because of the criers.”

“Or?” Ann demanded.

“Or…you can charge him for treason. For disobeying you. The problem with this—because it is your right, and normally what I would advise you to do—is he’s very popular among the people right now. What he has done has lifted a great weight off their backs. There would almost surely be a riot if he were executed.”

“He acted against my orders,” Ann said. “And the ‘great weight off of their back’ placed the weight of grief upon hundreds of families who were already struggling.”

Ann watched him hold back his argument against her.

“Er—yes. He acted against your direct, and oft-stated orders. There is certainly no room for misconception. He did, by law, commit treason.”

“But of course, the other dukes would not support me. They want a war. Glory for their sons and daughters. Expansion of their lands. And I’ve ordered the execution of one of them on the witness of the captain of my kingsguard, and two witnesses who most believe belong in children’s stories,” Ann said, wincing.

He said, “Yes, that is all true.” 

To his credit, William pursed his lips, but did not press her one way or another. What William claimed was a difficult decision was instead very easy. Perhaps she might wear the hood and wield the ax herself.

“When he arrives at the end of the month, he will denounce his actions and give up his title, or I will execute him for treason,” she declared. “That is his choice to make, and he will make it under the eyes of the throne and the civilians he led astray, deceived, bamboozled, and hoodwinked.”

“Ann, perhaps you should sleep on this—”

“No. I’ve made my decision,” she said coldly.

Ann clenched her hands into fists, fingernails digging into her skin. Her mind bubbled with a thousand thoughts, overwhelming her until tears spilled from her eyes. William was gone. The study was dark, and Ann couldn’t summon the willpower to light a candle.

She wanted Anne more than ever. Today marked a year and six months since she left. The hollowness of her own body was filled again with things like her queenly duties and a single, finished painting. Without Anne, she would never feel full and bright, but she had a purpose.

Today, however, the world was heavy. She wished Anne could help her carry it.

***

Anne found the Duke Ainsworth in the East, a week past the border into the kingdom that would one day become Ann’s sister’s. 

When she pictured the moment in her mind’s eye, the fool of a man would scoff at her, brandish his toothpick and demand a duel. Instead, he cowered in the back of his carriage, small and scared.

It was better this way, anyway, Anne thought. She was tired. She couldn’t even summon the energy to pity him.

The sky had the gall to rain. Fat drops slid off of leaves and splattered her armor. She drew her sword, the menacing sound of steel on steel dulled in the shower, its glimmer lost in the shade. A bird sang in the trees, low and sweet. Nothing stood against her; the gods had exacted their toll on each of them. It was time.

Duke Ainsworth began to sob. “No, please, ser. I—I didn’t mean to almost kill her, it was an accident. It was foolish, it was stupid. I’ll pay you whatever you want. I’ll give you a kingdom. Whatever you want, it’s yours!” he plead, his eyes wild with fear.

“I want to go home,” Anne admitted softly. “Pick up your sword, and die with the dignity you don’t deserve. I’m tired, and I want to go home. I have no patience for begging.”

The duke did not obey. Anne kicked open the door, tugging him to the ground by the shoulder.

“Stand,” she commanded.

Again, he did not listen. He curled in the dirt like a fetus, sobbing. His pleas turned to whispers, then prayers as she watched. He clutched a totem to his chest, and his prayers turned to sobs, muddled by the tears pooling over his lips.

Odd, she thought. Still no pity.

His life was not a satisfying one to take. The journey had snuffed out her fury, whittled away her resolve, and hardened her heart. The duke’s death brought only the relief of a duty fulfilled, like unloading the weight of the world, only to find that her back and muscles still ached. Only after Anne turned around did a warmth spread through her, alien and new.

Anne was going home.

Chapter Text

Each night since Anne left, Ann dreamed of her homecoming.

Sometimes her dream took place in the throne room, Ann sitting in her chair and her knight bursting through the doorway with wild hair, polished armor, and a bloody sword. The crowd between them would watch with shock and bewilderment as they raced toward each other, crashing together like two waves in a hungry kiss.

Often, Ann envisioned reuniting with the captain in her garden, the scents of roses, orchids, and lavender swirling around them as they rushed to each other. When Anne surprised her, she would be reading and eating a honeycomb, sweetening their kisses with pungent, rich honey. The hard muscles of Anne’s shoulders and back flexed under Ann’s fingers as they held each other. They adjusted again and again, pressing as close as they could, grasping at their clothes as though the unstoppable movement of time was the thing cleaving them apart.

Mostly, she dreamed that Anne’s touch would restore the hollowness ringing in her bones and gut and heart. Not heal, like stitches that still left scars, or an amputation that stops rot at the cost of a limb—no. Restore. To take away the pain and return her body to the way it was before, as though it never suffered in the first place. A godly thing, melting away agony, a warm fire banishing the cold. 

Ann dreamt that her kiss would flourish through her body, and everything would be as it should. She would forget the loneliness that settled in the marrow of her bones like a frost. Those nights where it bristled within her during ungodly hours, bringing her to tears, churning her stomach, putting the knife in her trembling fist—gone. Even the memory of them broke her peace.

If Ann saw her now, she wouldn’t hold back. She wouldn’t let her go. Anne would kiss her, wet and slow, with every pair of eyes in the world to witness it. If the universe wanted to rip them apart, Ann would brandish her knight’s sword against it. The gods could smite her as punishment, and Ann would meet her fate with calm peace. Anne was hers. She didn’t care about her family, her duty, the gods, death, any of it—Ann would pay whatever price each exacted from her. Nothing could be more costly than the time they already sacrificed.

Perhaps Ann was a bit of a romantic, but the ordinary way they reunited was just as lovely as each of the grandiose scenes she imagined in her head a thousand times over. The scene around them blurred, drawing Anne into sharp focus. All that mattered was Anne, and the delicate touch of her warm, calloused hand. 

Since Ann received the letter from Anne three weeks before declaring her homecoming, she struggled to concentrate on anything. She ordered all her clothes mended, took a bath nightly, and fussed over straightening rugs and keeping fresh floral displays in the castle. Listening for Argus’s proud, heavy hoofbeats, she sat by the window when she could, painting, knitting, reading. 

On an ordinary Thursday, Ann read the general’s last reports, searching for clues that might have hinted at future treachery. She was on the couch in her bedroom, her legs tucked beneath her, and a cup of tea balanced precariously on the cushion beside her. Her eyes ran over the text three times before she gave up hope of reading anything. She soon dozed off, sinking into the cushion.

Ann woke when the sun sank deeper toward the horizon, casting a faint mustard-yellow light into the room. As she surfaced, she became dimly aware of a wetness soaking her leg and thigh, and sat up quickly, startled.

Her head ached with the heaviness of sleep. Beside her, the teacup lay tipped over, tea seeping into the cushion, her dress, and the stack of Rawson’s letters that slipped from her fingers at some point during her nap. Ann cursed, separating the stuck together pages and laying them on the coffee table to dry.

“Damn it all,” she muttered.

The tea left a faint-brownish stain on the skirt of her yellow dress. Unpleasantly cold and sticky, the soaked fabric clung to her thigh and butt. Ann grimaced. She held her pounding head, rubbing her temples with cold fingertips, frustrated and annoyed.

A servant knocked on the door. Ann stood, ready to show them her skirt and ask for a towel and a new dress. However, she froze at the end of the couch, staring wide-eyed as Anne stepped through, a bouquet of white roses tucked under her arm.

Ann stared at the knight before her, breathless. Anne wore the black coat with silver buttons Ann liked, her sword strapped to her waist, and her hair was brushed clean and over her shoulder in a smooth braid. Her face and neck were angry pink from a recent bath. Ann noticed, with a rush of affection, that the edge of her left eyebrow was flecked with gray.

Ann took a breath. She thought she might faint.

With a sheepish smile, Anne said, “You know, when I closed my eyes and pictured you, this is exactly what I imagined.”

All of her frustration evaporated at the sound of Anne’s voice.

“Me being clumsy?” Ann guessed.

Anne chuckled. “You, doing something ordinary, and somehow managing to look ethereal while doing it. Like a goddess among mortals.”

Despite their year and a half apart, it was as if Anne never left. Anne was familiar, like coming home, the woodsy smell of her more powerful and enthralling now that it had been so long. The journey took a toll on her; she was tired, her hair a little grayer, and the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She was even more handsome than Ann remembered.

“What was it like, travelling again?” Ann managed. “I know you love to see the world. Your letters spoke so affectionately of it.”

Anne laughed. Her breath brushed Ann’s lips and cheek. The gentleness and familiarity of it nearly brought her to tears.

“Suffering. I suffered long, for this, for you, and it was worth it,” Anne whispered.

Anne held Ann’s face with a hand, her long fingers curling up the length of her jaw. She tipped her head and pressed a gentle, dizzying kiss to her lips. It lasted both a moment and a decade, and it was everything Ann wanted, the core of her blooming like a flower she believed to be long dead.

What was it like to be lonely? Ann didn’t know. She simply forgot.

“Oh, Anne, I missed you. I missed how you smell,” Ann sighed.

Ann lost herself in Anne’s kiss. Every sense but touch faded or drifted; there was only Anne’s soft lips on hers, the gentle wet of her tongue, and the warmth of her breath; Anne’s hands smoothed the side of her face, then brushed her throat, sweeping down her back to tug her closer.

The roses spilled from her arm. Neither of them cared. They kissed until Ann struggled to stand, and Anne carried her to the bed, still kissing, meandering around end tables and over the fallen roses.

How Ann missed her. Her hands smoothed over the rough padding of Anne’s coat, melting at the thought of her soft, warm skin and rippling muscles beneath. Ann’s bare calves rubbed against Anne’s worn leather boots, then her sloppily-sewn homespun leggings. She tugged Anne closer, then draped her legs around Anne’s hips.

While Ann pulled away to catch her breath, Anne gnawed open-mouthed kisses over Ann’s cheeks, her throat, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. She continued down her chest, nipping at the flesh revealed by the open collar of Ann’s dress. Ann hummed into her hair.

“I haven’t stopped thinking of you. And since I received your letter, saying you were finally coming home, I—oh, Anne. I don’t think I’ve slept!” Ann gushed. “The stupid part of me thought—oh, I’ll never see her again, she’ll never find him. But you’re here.”

 “Shh, you’re not stupid, my love. I wondered if you might be married or betrothed, and you were too frightened or miserable to tell me,” Anne confessed. “Fear is a strange thing. It builds upon itself, with no need for truth to steady it, and it becomes so large and abominable it swallows you. And then you think yourself in mortal danger, only to find that your eyes are closed, and the thing itself is a fabrication.”

It took Ann’s breath to be able to calm her knight’s fears. She smoothed the wrinkle between Anne’s eyebrows away with a finger. 

“I will only ever marry you,” she promised.

“Then you will never marry,” Anne replied bitterly.

Ann kissed her nose. “That’s fine. Besides, you never know—I might die, and be resurrected again, and you freed from your oaths. Stranger things have happened. Now that we know magic is real,” she joked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“My oaths are not a trap, my love. They bind me to you. We would never have found each other without them,” Anne reminded her. Beneath the playful tone, she was serious. “I hope that I am never released from them, and swear them again to another monarch. I hope that you outlast me in this world.”

Ann said, “Mmm, well, I hope the opposite.”

“Then if the gods are kind, we will grow old and die together,” Anne reasoned. She ran her palms down the length of Ann’s legs. “As much as I love this, I need you to free my hips so I can remove my sword. It’s getting in the way."

The sight of Anne’s hands gripping her thighs and calves was too much and not enough all at once. The way her fingers splayed to cover nearly the entire curve of her thigh made Ann feel small, and the tenderness of her caress made her feel safe. She wanted to pull Anne fully over her, surrounding her, big, strong, safe.

Ann couldn’t let her knight go, until she looked at Anne’s face and saw her wincing in pain.

“The pommel’s digging into my side,” Anne choked, peeling Ann’s legs off of her.

“Sorry. It’s just—you’re very handsome. It’s been so long, looking at you feels…overwhelming,” Ann said.

“Oh, I see that,” Anne said, pointedly looking between Ann’s legs. Ann blushed.

Anne smiled, pulling back to untie her belt. She balanced the sword at the edge of the bed, then gathered the roses back into her arms.

As Anne picked up the flowers, she asked, “Darling, I hate to interrupt our evening with official business, but I’ve been back only briefly, and heard mutterings of things, but no details. Is everything alright? What’s happened?”

Ann scoffed. “Annoying, awful things. Things that can wait until tomorrow. I don’t want to see or even think of another human being for the rest of the night. Will you say, and fall asleep with me?” she said, looking over at Ann with wide eyes.

Anne lay the flowers on the table, then climbed back into the bed. She let Ann guide her where she wanted, straddling her waist, brushing her hair back, and gazing at her with rapt seriousness. Ann picked at Anne’s braid with a thumb.

“You ask as if there is a chance I will say no,” Anne said, smirking. “Since I left, I have thought about all the ways I’d like to touch your body, all the sounds I want to hear again. I want to press my lips on every freckle. I want to brush your hair. I want to remember how the veins on your wrist lift themselves to your skin, and how the insides of your thighs redden between my teeth. I want to taste you again, because any honey, mead, or wine that has touched my tongue since has been a disappointment.”

The things Anne said in her letters were often just as suggestive, but this was different. Ann was overwhelmed by the combination of hearing her say it aloud, seeing her tender expression as she spoke the words, the gentle prickle of goosebumps where her fingers brushed her, and inhaling the dizzying scent of her perfume. Her mind was a mess of tangled thoughts and feelings. It was all too much. It wasn’t enough. 

The time it took to shed their clothes passed with the dull hum of a fever dream. It was a mess of fabric and flesh, colors dulled by the darkening sky, and sharp cries of laughter as they clashed back together again. Anne held her tightly, and all Ann could think was that it was good to be held. She couldn’t remember the last time she touched another human being. 

“I’m never letting you leave my side again,” Ann declared against Anne’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t obey if you ordered it,” Anne said softly.

Anne’s hand caressed her between her legs, her fingers softly brushing the inside of her thighs, teasing the length of her clit, gathering her arousal. Anne tucked her face in Ann’s throat, kissing, biting, sucking, until Ann didn’t know where to focus her attention. She struggled to keep control of it until Anne kissed her breast, and she surrendered.

A myriad of sensations twisted themselves in her thoughts and over her body, running over each other like a rush of warm water. They flitted from Anne’s wet mouth to the powerful strokes of her fingers to the slickness wetting the knee tucked between Anne’s legs, intermingling without committing themselves, all happening at once, bursting behind her eyes in colors that had no name.

Anne kissed her mouth gently, and she surfaced, gasping.

“Anne—this is—” Ann sighed, realizing words were useless.

Anne chuckled. “William wants to talk,” she said, still kneading her clit between two fingers.

Ann opened her eyes, bewildered. “W-what?”

“Your majesty, may I come in? It will only take a moment,” William called through the door.

“No,” Ann gasped. “Ser Lister is g-giving me her full report. Leave a message with the guard, or w-wait for me to call on you.”

Anne’s finger dipped into and curled inside her, immediately hitting the spot that jellied her limbs and made her tongue buzz. Anne knew it, too, smirking at her while she unraveled.

“Ser Lister is giving you a full report—in your bedroom?” he called, his inflection betraying disbelief.

Anne’s grin widened. She didn’t slow her pace as Ann replied, struggling to process even the most basic of thoughts and sound composed.

“I’m—fff—I’m tired. Was reading. Anne—S-ser Lister is—has stressed that it’s important— lord —” Ann choked at the end, scolding Anne with a look.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” Anne said, her voice a low growl in her ear. “What does he think, I wonder?”

“He doesn’t—ah,” Ann gasped. “Stop—asking me to talk. Please.”

“Would you like me to slow down?” Anne asked, beaming mirthfully.

“Oh, please don’t,” Ann begged. “I feel like—like—”

Ann found she couldn’t put it into words. A burst of color. A spreading warmth. And, permeating it all, Anne. Not just Anne’s body, or the way she touched her, like she knew every inch of her through and through better than even Ann herself. Not just the heavy relief of an absence suddenly filled. It was the essence of Anne, both the idea and the reality, encompassing her full being like a prayer. Except, instead of the far-off blessing of the gods, Anne was immediate, there, only for her.

She wanted the hot pressure of Anne’s tongue, and the gentle insistence of her lips. She ached to feel the frenzy of her breath. Ann tangled her fingers in Anne’s hair, loosening strands from the braid, and pushed her between her thighs.

“You could at least be polite enough to use words, your majesty,” Anne chastised. 

Ann could barely keep control of a thought long enough to think it, much less form words with her mouth. She tugged Anne’s hair, hard, saying, Get on with it. I need you .

Anne groaned. The sound itself sang in Ann’s ears, more beautiful and lasting than the deepest notes of a lute. Finally, Anne kissed her. The pressure was too light, too kind. She wanted Anne to devour her. She tugged her hair harder, until Anne gasped into the kiss and her nails dug into the curve of Ann’s ass.

“Good lord, Ann,” Anne wheezed. 

“More,” Ann demanded. 

Anne obeyed, her delicate kisses turning to desperate, powerful things. Ann wondered if she had to beg Anne to use her tongue, and then Anne did, the hot pressure of it brushing powerfully but slowly from the dip of her entrance to the bud of her clit, where Anne paused and then sucked.

A tingling warmth flourished from that point through her entire body. Ann smoothed Anne’s hair gently, her muscles too weak to do anything else.

Anne pushed her finger in again, except it must have been two, because she felt suddenly full. 

No longer divided by sensations running the length of her body, Ann lay awestruck under an insurmountable tension. Anne’s tongue. Her hands. Her teeth. All gathering Ann’s soul to the core of her body, drawing it out with sure, strong strokes. Ann tossed beneath her, clamoring for pillows, sheets, anything to stop the relief she didn’t want but did, like diving off a cliff into an ocean she knew would catch her. 

At the edge, Anne paused, grinning. Her lips and nose gleamed with Ann’s arousal, and the sight of it was almost too much. Ann tangled her hands in her hair, so dark and long and soft, and Anne laughed.

“You’re so loud, my love. Someone will hear,” Anne said, her cheeks glowing crimson. 

Ann reached for a pillow, holding it over her mouth with both arms. Anne returned to her, her strokes more powerful than before. The bulge of Anne’s bicep flitted behind Ann’s eyes, and then her thighs, her smile, her intoxicating smell, and then there was nothing except a buzzing that burst, spreading through her body like a wave surging out to caress her.

Anne licked the arousal from her thighs, then kissed her gently. She nipped at her hips, her stomach, kissed her breasts, and tucked her face under Ann’s chin.

In her knight’s arms, Ann was exhausted. And warm. And safe. 

***

In the middle of the night, Ann woke to her knight shifting restlessly beside her. She grazed her fingers lightly over Anne’s shoulder and down her back in tiny, calm circles. Ann expected her to hum, roll over, and kiss her gently, but instead Anne sat up, squinting toward the window.

“What’s wrong?” Ann asked, following her gaze.

She saw before Anne answered her; orange light flickered in the corner of the window, bouncing off the trees, as though there were a fire below.

Anne stood, peering out of the window. Ann wanted to share the concern in her eyes, but couldn’t. The silhouette of her naked body against the moonlight wicked away all other thoughts from her mind. She leaned against the windowpane, the jagged plane of her back sliding smoothly into the curve of her hips and butt.

“What is it?” Ann asked tenderly, following the gentle bulge of muscle on her legs and arms.

“Torches,” Anne said. She squinted to see through the flickering orange. “They’re coming toward the castle.”

Ann sat up. Uneasiness wormed its way into her stomach. “Why, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said. 

Anne’s expression was blank as she tugged her tunic and trousers back on. Her movements were mechanical. She stared forward past Ann and into the darkness on the far side of the room. When Anne tied the sword to her waist, Ann stood, and touched her cheek.

“Those are soldiers in formation,” Anne continued without bidding. “I—I recognize the lines. But I can’t fathom why they would be coming here. You should dress, just in case.”

Ann held her face. “You’re worried,” she said.

“I always worry about you,” Anne replied with a gentle smile. “Do you still have the clothes I gave you?”

“The tunic and trousers? Yes,” Ann said. She withdrew them where they lay hidden behind a row of books. “I kept them because I always—well, I hoped you’d take me again,” she admitted, blushing. 

“I will. Tomorrow, if you want,” Anne promised. “Maybe it’s nothing. I’m sorry if I’m making you nervous.”

Ann didn’t feel nervous. In fact, she felt perfectly safe.

“Anne, I—”

Distant yelling seeped through the walls. Anne drew her sword, stepping in front of her as the door swung open. Ser Washington and Ser Cordingley rushed through the door, stopping in the doorframe, staring wide-eyed at Anne.

“Your majesty—Captain?—it’s—” Ser Washington gasped for air as he looked between them. “C-captain—your majesty—there are soldiers—our soldiers, General Rawson’s men—storming the castle. You’re in danger, your majesty, we need to go.”

Tension thickened the air as Ser Cordingley looked between Anne, Ann, and the tousled bed. Voices echoed from down the hallway, growing closer. Ser Cordingley opened her mouth, and then Anne spoke.

“We can use the servants’ hallways,” Anne said, turning from Cordingley to Washington. “Get the Priestley’s. Ser Cordingley, fetch the queen’s aunt, and we will meet at the rendezvous point. Lock the door behind us.”

Ann wondered if Ser Ciordingley would challenge her. Had her feelings about their affair dulled or worsened in the time that passed? They hadn’t spoken of it in so long. But as the voices grew louder and the torchlight brighter, Ser Cordingley simply nodded. 

Chapter Text

Her knight was afraid. Ann supposed that should worry her, but it didn’t. 

Ann found it difficult to feel much of anything as General Rawson’s soldiers marched into her castle, unaware of their presence in the shrubbery a small distance away. Anne steeled her eyes on them, the licking torchlight reflecting in the beads of her pupils. 

Rage swelled inside her knight. Even after so long apart, Ann felt the tension in her arms, the grinding of her jaw, and her stark-white knuckles as they gripped the handle of her sword, ready to draw it in Ann’s defense.

Ann placed her small hand over Anne’s large one, steadying her trembling indecision. 

“They’re traitors, all of them,” Anne hissed. “Marching on the castle of their own queen. I’d kill them myself if I could.”

“General Rawson is the traitor. These men and women are just following orders, aren’t they?” Ann said numbly. “They have no reason to feel passion for me, I’m—well, I’m as you said, so long ago. Far away. An idea, rather than a person. The general is a man to them. Why wouldn’t they? Even if they got to choose.”

Anne turned to her, finally. Her eyebrows knit together with concern. Or frustration. She couldn’t tell.

“I wouldn’t,” she said. “It’s treason. Even a general can’t order the lowliest soldier to do that. They each made a choice.”

Ann didn’t know why she wanted to defend them. Her hands tightened into fists. Maybe because she didn’t want to believe that there was this much evil in the world, that instead she needed to believe people would rather be kind than unkind, and there was something else at work other than her own incompetence. 

Though there was that, too.

Ann whispered, “But when the lowliest soldier stands up for what they believe in, or for what is right, what do they sacrifice, Anne? Food and money for their family, their friends, their homes. Why would they choose ideals and morals over what’s real?”

“Ideals and morals are real. I choose them every single day. What I want and what I feel are secondary to the fulfillment of my oaths,” Anne snapped. “Why should their lives and their family’s lives be more important than what is good and right? If they’re willing to die for Rawson’s greed, they can meet justice at the end of my sword. They’re traitors. And cowards, too.”

Anne’s fury strengthened her words. Ann was hopeless to get through to her now. She didn’t want to be at odds with the woman she loved, especially when both of them were heavy with hurt. Ann bit back her retort, and chose to fall silent instead.

Swords clashed far away at the walls surrounding the castle, scrapes of steel and a frenzy of bellowing echoing deep into the night. That was her city guard, Ann realized with sinking sadness. Men and women that didn’t have the same training or experience as the soldiers they fought, and followed her orders directly, instead of General Rawson’s. They fought against his army with no hope to live, and chose to die anyway. 

Tragic, she thought. And wrong, somehow.

Though furious and afraid, Anne kept her calm and poise through the building chaos. Ann began to crumble. She tugged on Anne’s sleeve, her face scrunched like she might cry, and fought to keep tears from her voice. She wasn’t sure if she was sad, angry, or simply afraid; though her body seemed to swing with tumultuous emotion, her mind and heart didn’t know what to feel, and settled on nothing while her body stirred with swirling, gray, nameless terrors.

“We need to go, Anne. I can’t take it here anymore,” she whispered.

Anne must have heard something in her voice, for she turned immediately, and her expression softened.

“You’re right. Let’s get you out of here,” she said.

They slowly made their way toward the stables. Soldiers began spreading out from the main formation, shoving torches into dark corners and spaces to reveal hiding servants. Ann watched fearfully as a pair of soldiers plucked a servant only ten feet away out of his hiding place, searched him, and questioned him. They pressed a drawn sword against his throat. She breathed out only after the soldiers got what they wanted and moved on, and no one was hurt.

Ann learned to watch Anne’s hands as they moved. Her hands signaled commands out of habit. Though none of the motions made sense to Ann, she learned quickly that most of them meant some variation of “stop.” 

Once, Ann stumbled into her, and Anne whipped around, furious. The anger melted from her eyes as immediately as it appeared.

Anne said, “I’m sorry, my love. Sometimes I forget.”

Her knight’s mind was somewhere far away. Ann wondered what she’d forgotten, but bit back the question as they continued on. 

With rising panic, Ann felt a dissonance between them, like a split vision where each image was slightly out of sync. Her heart raced and her breaths quickened, but she followed Anne silently while her mind conjured the worst possible scenarios. Anne was tired of her. In her absence, Anne forgot what she was really like. Their current situation proved the truth of what Ann was—a fraud, a failure, a stupid child who thought she could play with the fate of a kingdom, and Anne was disgusted with her.

The good in all this is that the kingdom will be better off without me , she thought bitterly.

When they arrived, the stables were free of soldiers. However, the far-off fighting stirred a nervous tension into the air, driving the horses into a skittish frenzy. One stablegirl helplessly tugged at two of the soldiers’ horses, pleading them to calm down with hushed whispers. She was a small, withered thing, and couldn’t have been older than ten.

Anne mouthed, “Stay here,” and approached the girl.

The girl spun wildly when she saw her. “You’re a knight,” she sputtered, “I—you shouldn’t be here, ser. The s-soldiers are—w-who are you?”

Ser Lister was a daunting figure to a young girl. Ann had a semblance of the feeling, though the measured, graying Ser Lister was much different from the cocky, strapping woman she first met so many years ago. The child was a curious thing. It took immeasurable bravery for anyone—especially a child—to stand against her so defiantly. The girl trembled with fear, but it only bolstered the courageousness of the act.

“I am Ser Lister, captain of her majesty’s kingsguard,” Anne said quietly. She watched the girl’s face as she said it, and frowned at the terror in her eyes. “I need you to ready seven horses, as quickly as you can. Each of the kingsguard’s stallions. I can help you, but I’ll need you to show me where everything is. The kingdom depends on this, do you understand?”

“Th-the m-m-man, he said—he said if you came, I should light the candle in the window. As a signal to him. O-or he’d k-kill me. I don’t want to die,” she whispered.

“Then why tell me?”

“You’re a knight,” she said again, awestruck. Then she stiffened, puffing out her little chest. “And I’ll be one someday. I’m not a coward. “I’ll help you…and the queen?” she added shyly.

“I serve the queen,” Anne said tactfully. “So, yes.”

“Helping the queen,” the girl whispered to herself. “I’d like that.”

“And what will you do, when the man that threatened you comes to kill you for helping us leave?” Anne said.

The girl rubbed her chin. She replied, “Well, I suppose I’ll hide. And if he finds me, I suppose I’ll die.”

Anne folded her arms behind her back, walking around the girl to get the measure of her. Gently, she asked, “And it’s worth it to you? Many grown men would call you foolish for surrendering your life so willingly.”

From behind the barn, Ann saw a gleam alight in Anne’s face. Anne had little patience for children; in the few interactions Ann witnessed, Anne only spoke to scold or instruct a child. She corrected with swift strikes and blunt observations. Yet, she spoke to this one as she would an adult, and the child replied in kind.

“Well, without me, you’ll hardly leave fast enough before someone comes back. I want to be a knight, I want to be honorable, and for the things I do to have a purpose. Saving the queen’s life is a good enough purpose, I think,” she reasoned. “Will you tell her I helped?”

“I’ll tell her you made all the difference,” Anne said, a smile on her lips.

You like the child, Anne, Ann thought, suppressing a laugh. Despite yourself.

Anne’s promise spurred the child to action. Together, Anne and the girl readied the seven horses and a small cart of feed and supplies by the time the rest of the kingsguard and her family arrived. There was little time to talk as Anne partnered each kingsguard with a member of the royal family, giving them instructions for their next rendezvous. 

Before mounting her horse, Anne addressed the girl. 

“You want to be a knight someday?” she asked. The girl nodded, and she continued, “Then you’ll have to squire, first. It’ll be many years. I’ll push you hard. I’ll expect your strongest effort, and if I get anything less, I’ll leave you in the street to your own devices without a second thought. But if you do, and you back up your effort with true skill, I’ll knight you myself when you’re ready. If that sounds good to you, you’re welcome to come with us.”

The girl stared wide-eyed at Anne, speechless, before turning to gaze at Ann, when she fell to the ground in a deep bow. She sputtered a greeting, but no full words came out. Anne guided her to her feet gently by the arm.

“What is your name, child?”

“Eliza,” she said breathlessly.

“Eliza, get on Ser Booth’s horse. The next time you address the queen, wait for her to address you first, and speak clearly enough for her to understand,” she scolded. After a pause, Anne asked, “Can you read and write?”

“Yes,” Eliza answered.

“Good,” Anne said, her expression a mixture of surprise and relief. “Good.” 

Anne leaped onto Argus behind Ann, holding her tightly with one arm while her free hand gripped the reins. Pressed close to her body, Ann felt warm and safe. They were far behind the others, and Anne dared to kiss her behind the ear. Ann smiled. 

Each breath warming her neck ebbed her anxieties away. Anne stared forward while they travelled, but pressed a gentle kiss to Ann’s shoulder every few minutes. Her affection was as soothing as a rush of warm water, and if it weren’t for the threat of the army behind them, Ann would have dozed off immediately.

Once they were safely out of the city, Ann asked, “Why her? You’ve never taken a squire in your entire career without my father forcing you to do it.”

 “She was willing to die for what she believed was right. You can’t teach that,” Anne murmured in her ear. “It’s something too many knights lack.”

Ann started. “Is that why—"

Anne nodded. “Your family might hate me for it, but that’s why I reformed the kingsguard when your father made me captain, and why he allowed it,” she said. “They were added to the kingsguard to pay debts and restore honor to families whose word means nothing. They never lived by their oaths. They would choose their lives over you and your family’s in a heartbeat.”

“But not these knights,” Ann clarified, raising an eyebrow.

Anne smiled warmly. She said, “No, I believe any of these knights would die for you without question. I know you doubt him, and you should: Ser Sowden is young, and was knighted far too early. Whoever he squired for is an idiot. But all of his flaws can be corrected. He would die defending you, and that is more important than anything else.”

Ann had never expressed doubt toward Sowden; early in her rule, she hesitated to question Anne’s—or anyone’s—choices openly. When he swore to her, she saw someone a little too youthful and a little too frightened to be counted among the seven best knights in the kingdom. She doubted him, and Anne had seen.

Ann blushed from embarrassment.

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you, even if I never said anything,” she said. 

“I only wish you’d felt comfortable enough to express your concerns to me, my love. I always put thought and reason into my actions, just as you do. I would have loved to have eased your concerns,” Anne said.

“Mmm,” Ann hummed from the touch of her lips on her ear. “Too late now, I’m hardly a queen anymore,” she lamented.

“That’s not true,” Anne said.

The events of the night hit Ann all at once, stealing her breath like a punch to the gut.

“It is. I’m an idiot,” Ann whispered. “I—I gave him all the power in the world, all the reason and tools to usurp me, and—and—and—”

She fell into a heaving sob. 

“I’m a failure. Y-you probably see me as a child and a fool. I—I tried, I thought I was doing well, but every time I think I’ve done well by putting goodness first I—the world laughs at me,” she finished, holding her hair in her fists. “It would be better, if Rawson took the throne, wouldn’t it? The kingdom would flourish, without a foolish girl like me pretending we don’t need war to live good lives. You don’t need to tell me. I know.”

“Ann, I—”

“Please,” Ann gasped, holding up a hand to quiet her. “I know you’re going to disagree. You’re going to say, ‘that’s not true, my love, you are a great queen.’ But even my head and heart don’t believe you. I hear you say the words, but they don’t matter. The one in my head is so much louder.”

Anne said nothing. She cradled Ann with both arms and rocked her gently, a dizzying thing while sitting on a trotting horse. She kissed the top of Ann’s head, her cheek, her neck. Each touch was a gentle glow of warmth. Each kiss was a defiant hush to the chaos inside her mind. 

Anne loved her, and she didn’t need to say it. Ann just knew. Her knight articulated it in a language her anxieties could not speak, and so could not counter.

They travelled the remainder of the way in tender silence. Anne kissed her until torchlight appeared in the distance, outlining the shapes of buildings and lightly cobbled streets. Ann opened her mouth to ask where they were, and then saw the swinging sign of the Stag’s Head Inn just ahead. 

Instead of taking the horses to the stables, they tied them in a dark, grassy area behind the inn. The seven kingsguard, the Priestleys, Ann, Catherine, and the little squire all stared at one another, lost for words in their strange situation. 

Washington finally spoke, stepping forward so the torchlight the next building over touched the side of his gleaming armor. Blood stained his bracer and a bit of his cloak. Ann didn’t want to know whose blood that was, or if he killed them. She looked past him, doing her best to look impassive. 

He gestured to Catherine, then said, “Ser Sowden checked the guest rooms, your majesty, and found Miss Rawson there. We thought she might be safe, being the general’s relation and not your own, but—we weren’t sure. She was willing enough to come along.”

Catherine nodded in agreement, apparently too shaken to speak.

“The general may want to bargain for the return of his niece, as well. We can write to him right away when we arrive in your sister’s kingdom to let him know she’s safe,” William added. Ann frowned at him. “Not that—your life is surely more valuable than as a bargaining chip, Catherine, but it’s—it’s—silver lining,” he finished lamely.

Elizabeth’s kingdom. Of course that’s where they were going, Ann realized. Prince Sutherland would no doubt be pleased to have them, just to see the humiliation on Ann’s face. She was a queen with no kingdom, made an exile by her own general. A joke.

“Your majesty, if you would come inside with me,” Anne said. “Everyone else, stay here, and be as quiet as you can. We don’t know whether Rawson sent soldiers out to these villages ahead of time.”

The inn was just as busy as when Anne brought her before, except the mirthful commotion and chaos gave Ann a headache instead of exciting her. It felt strange, being there with her family and the kingsguard. The Stag’s Head was like their secret place, somewhere Ann’s title and responsibilities melted away, the freedom from her station both a memory and a fantasy all at once. How bittersweet that thought was now.

Tib waved Anne over immediately as they entered. Ann wondered how she could see everything like that, and if she was more magical than she appeared.

The innkeeper reacted immediately to the grim expression on Anne’s face. She snapped her fingers for a barmaid to take over her duties, then brought them to a private room.

“You once offered to hide a body for me,” Anne said matter-of-factly when the door clicked shut. 

Ann wondered that there was no panic in her voice.

Tib’s gaze flickered to Ann. She smiled. “Of course, Annie. I remember. From whom am I hiding this one, and for how long?”

Anne swallowed. She added, “I need you to hide thirteen bodies. Just for tonight. From everyone’s eyes but your own.”

“Thirteen?” Tib exclaimed, aghast. “Hmm. I can do it, but you owe me a story for this. I have a feeling I’m about to be told just who your little friend is. Did you ride horses here?”

“Yes, there are seven.”

Tib rubbed her chin, then clapped as if it were no problem at all.

She said, “Excellent! I’ll take care of those, too. Bring your companions inside the back door, Annie, and follow me.”

“Wait,” Ann said. “You deserve to know who I am, I think.”

“Will you give me the pleasure of guessing? I’m a much better sleuth than your noble knight,” Tib said, waggling her eyebrows. 

Tib tapped her chin, then walked around Ann as one might judge an animal at a contest. She pinched the outside of Ann’s thigh, kneaded the fabric of her shirt between a thumb and forefinger, and bowed, declaring, “I have been in the presence of royalty, your majesty. Welcome to my humble inn.”

“How did you—"

“You, my dear, pick at the thighs and crotch of those trousers like they’re suffocating you, yet I see that they’re loose, and clearly not fitted to you. I doubt you wear them often, is that correct?” Ann nodded, and Tib’s smile widened. She continued, “Most intriguing, you have seven knights in your employ, including my good friend, whom I know to be in service of the queen.” 

Anne scoffed. “It wasn’t really much of a guessing game, if we’re being fair.”

“Absolutely not. The second you left to chase a pathetic man for months over the countryside without question, I know you were sick in love with the only person who could have asked you to do it,” Tib said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve never known you to enjoy hunting. You like the thrill of a good, fair fight. Moreover, you never say no to a pretty face. Ever.”

“Tib—"

Tib talked over her, smiling wickedly at Ann. “But I wanted to see her majesty’s face while I took us all on that journey. It was worth it, I think. You can still see the remnants of shock.”

Anne ground her teeth and growled, “ Tib —”

“To be honest, your majesty, I’m relieved. I was feeling a little left out, and like I was going a bit mad, calling everyone ‘Ann’ all the time. A word starts to lose meaning if you say it enough. Anne, Ann, Anne, Ann—you see? ‘Your majesty’ is just the spice of variety I need in this conversation.”

“That’s a very crude way to speak to a queen,” Ann chastised softly.

Tib winked. She said, “I was under the impression that that’s what you liked about me.”

“It is,” she agreed, blushing.

Next to her, Anne lost her calm. While Ann and Tib spoke, her knight began pacing around the room, fidgeting with decorations, picking at the paneling, and examining the wobbly legs of the table. At Ann’s giggle, she stood, eyeing Tib with barely restrained exasperation.

“Are you finished?” Anne said. “I have eleven people and seven horses standing outside, waiting to be found and slaughtered by Rawson’s army.”

“Why didn’t you say so!” Tib teased. “Let’s go and fetch them.”

They collected the others and gathered in a cold, dry room framed by barrels as tall and wide as Ann with her arms outstretched. Tib passed out blankets that were little more than repurposed flour sacks. William and Catherine began to complain, but Tib hushed them with a click of her tongue. Ann spread hers on the floor while they grumbled and adjusted. 

Anne knelt next to her, running her hand over the smooth wooden planks. She murmured, “This isn’t too bad, my love. Wood is better than hard ground, and hard ground better than tying yourself to a tree. Lie flat on your back, and stretch out the stiffness in the morning.”

“I’ll be with you. That’s better than anything else,” Ann whispered.

They shared a smile. 

Anne said, “I don’t deserve you.”

Ann opened her mouth to disagree, but Ser Washington and William summoned them to discuss travelling plans for the following morning. Ann waved them away, too exhausted to pretend she had an opinion to offer. Anne mouthed, I’ll be back .

Just as Anne left, Tib sauntered up behind her.

“I won’t take up any of your time, your majesty. I just wonder—if opposites attract, your sweetness must outweigh her grumpiness by a large margin,” Tib muttered.

“She’s the sweetest,” Ann assured her. “Much kinder than me, in some respects. Anne is very good at pretending to be mean.”

Tib said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, your majesty, but I don’t believe you.”

On the other side of the room, Anne narrowed her eyes at Tib and huffed.

“She doesn’t like me talking to you,” Tib observed.

“Probably because she’s afraid you’ll tell me something embarrassing,” Ann said. 

Tib pondered, “Let me see. Oh! Ask her what a ‘cobbler’s wine’ is. If she spins it into a drinking story, or says it’s something that happened when she was enlisted, she’s lying. She was sober and fully functional. You’re welcome.”

Ann managed a smile. “Thank you,” she said.

They lay down to sleep. The Priestlys and Ser Washington fell into a quiet but heated conversation; Cordingley scolded Sowden for polishing his armor improperly; Anne held her tightly, and whispered goodnight into her ear. Despite their length of time apart and the musty, awful smell of the room, her knight smelled the way Ann remembered. Intoxicating and real. Warm and safe.

Ann whispered, “What’s a cobbler’s wine?”

Anne made a deep, long sigh that turned into a rumbling groan.

“Every time I talk to Tib, she gives me a new reason to hate her,” Anne grumbled. “I’ll tell you some other time. Just go to sleep, darling.”

Ann closed her eyes, but couldn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

Ann lay awake, mourning herself.

Some essential part of her detached itself from her bones and the mold of her body. A thing that was once a weight she struggled to carry became a thing adorned in her strength, her pride, and her aspirations. Ann grew herself around it the way vines flourished over castle walls, embellishing the cruel gray stone with lush green leaves and flowers the color of sunlight. If the castle walls were knocked down, the vines would snap and unravel like delicate threads. Everything would be lost.

Ann never believed in the importance of blood to the throne. From the necessity of war to her lineage possessing the singular privilege to decide the fate of a million people, Ann believed the significance of blood was a falsehood created by the greedy to keep hold of power. Perhaps that doubt is why the gods unstuck her soul. It would be comforting to believe that instead of the truth: she was simply incompetent. 

Ann wasn’t queen anymore. The gods plucked her authority and their blessing from her blood. Where before their touch had the warmth of her father’s hand, they now pricked and prodded with the cold brutality of a doctor’s tools. Reality crashed around her as she lay in the cold, dark room, like castle walls crumbling. Withered leaves and vines fell around her like rain. Flowers hit the ground, and their petals curled in like ashes.

Ann lay awake, mourning herself.

***

Anne knew Ann wasn’t asleep by her gentle, irregular breaths. She soothed her as best she could, brushing her hair with her fingers, kissing the back of her neck, and rubbing her shoulders. None of it took away her ache or relaxed the tension in her muscles. No matter what she did, Ann lay still and silent, but did not sleep.

“You need rest, my love. Today was hard. You are safe, you are healthy, and you are with me. I will make everything okay, I promise,” Anne whispered.

Though they were close, Anne struggled to hear her tiny voice over the thunderous snoring around them. She leaned in so close Ann’s lips brushed her ear as she spoke.

Ann said, “I’m going to release you from your oaths. All of you. I’m not a queen anymore.”

A thousand thoughts swarmed her brain all at once. Anne’s instinct was to tell Ann that renouncing the oaths of sworn knights was too drastic an action. “We will fight for your crown,” Anne would tell her, “and take it back from the treacherous thieves.” 

The oaths were godly things. They were sacred promises that carried meaning and consequence. They couldn’t be taken back and then sworn again when it was convenient, just as a crown couldn’t be passed between monarchs like a toy between fighting children. It would render them meaningless.

“Don’t,” Anne pleaded. “We’ll make you queen again, I swear it.”

Ann sniffed. She quieted Anne with a finger to her lips.

“Shh, no. S-something’s different. Something’s gone,” she said. “I f-felt it, like the gods stripped me of my soul.”

A tear that was not her own rolled down Anne’s cheek. Anne wiped it away with her finger. She pressed their foreheads together and cradled Ann close.

“I will fight for you. If I must die, I’ll do it. You will have their blessing again,” Anne said.

Ann whispered, “My love. I have no army, no lands, no gold, and no title. I have only a claim, meaningless without everything else. A claim, and no supporters, not even the gods themselves. I have lost.”

Ann was so good. She was loving. She was kind. How could the gods dare to abandon kindness and goodness for greed and treachery? If it was true that gods meandered through time like travelling between stars in the sky, they could never know the pain and ache that mortals suffered. They could never know the burden of patience. They were ignorant, not cruel, when they asked of a person to endure too much. 

Fuck the gods, Anne decided. And any mortal who dared to make her love feel this way.

“You did not fail. The kingsguard failed you,” Anne whispered. “Every man sworn to you—the general himself, the soldiers in your army—failed you. If the gods were just, they would smite us where we lie.”

Ann brushed her lips with a finger. She said, “Shh, no. Each of the kingsguard did everything they could. You fulfilled your oaths—you saved my life. You protected my family from harm. Sometimes there’s nothing else you can do.”

Anne didn’t like that. Relinquishing control to luck, fate, or ordinary randomness was not a possibility. There was always something she could do, and she was willing to pay the price it demanded. If killing a dozen men would restore her lover’s crown, she would do it. If the cost was her own life—well. Anne liked to think she would pay that, too.

Anne sacrificed so much to swear and uphold her oaths. She broke things that could not be mended. Said things she could not take back. Surrendered time that could not be returned. Pruned parts of herself that could not be regrown. Every thought traced its root to her oaths. All of her guilt stemmed from what she struggled to surrender in their name.

In a panic, Anne hissed, “It’s the will of the gods that you became queen! Ann, I know you’re upset, but to dismiss the oaths—”

“Where was the will of the gods when General Rawson stormed my castle with my own army? If anything, I’m the one who failed, and the gods have delivered their verdict. I was an awful queen. I was never meant to rule, and I was unfit from the start,” Ann said, voice cracking. 

Tears streamed down her cheeks. One member of the cacophony of snores stopped. They froze, listening with pounding hearts, until their snoring resumed.

Anne sputtered, “Ann, that’s—”

What could Anne say? Ridiculous? Untrue? Who was she to tell the voice of the gods what the gods were trying to say?

Anne fell quiet. Ann cried. She could do nothing for her but gather her close. 

***

In the early morning hours, just before dawn broke the edge of the horizon, a group of soldiers barged into the inn. Their heavy, military-issued boots and weapons scraped the wooden floors and tables. The unpleasant squeak of aggressively pushed chairs rang through the thin walls and into the room where Ann’s family and the kingsguard hid, waiting. The soldiers made enough noise to wake all but the heaviest of sleepers—the little squire, William, and the aunt.

In the pitch darkness, Anne whispered commands for the kingsguard to stand and draw their weapons.

Tib’s low, jovial voice rang through, hardly muffled by the thin wooden walls.

“What can I do for you gentlemen? And lady,” Tib said. 

Anne rolled her eyes. She didn’t need to see the wink to know it was happening.

“By the king’s orders—"

“King? I didn’t know the queen got married. And usually them royals like even us commonfolk to know all about it,” Tib said. “And even if she did—which she couldn’t have, because I don’t know about it—wouldn’t the queen still be giving orders anyway? On account of the whole ‘family lineage blood blah, blah, blah,’ thing.”

With a small laugh, a woman’s voice offered, “Ancestry?”

“That’s the word. You’re a reader, aren’t you? I can te—"

The first voice interrupted, “Ma’am, we have orders from the king to gather any information you may have on the former queen’s whereabouts. She’ll likely be travelling with some or all of her kingsguard, and possibly her aunt and cousins.”

“Sounds like quite the entourage,” Tib mused. “Pretty stupid of them to travel together like that if they want to stay hidden, don’t you think?”

“So you haven’t—”

“No, my friend, I’m afraid not. The captain of the kingsguard is a friend of a friend of a friend, and I’ve heard she’s not too bright. Wouldn’t be surprised if you found them camping in the middle of an open field,” Tib said, chuckling.

The longer their conversation wore on, the greater Anne’s headache became. Tib was annoying and crude, but she deflected their questions and accusations with swift, casual jibes, largely at Anne’s expense. Anne grit her teeth, but understood what Tib was doing; her gentle insults dropped shiny bits of information the soldiers would use to find them, thinking Tib dull and dumb, while instead she led them off Anne’s trail. It was smart, and why Anne trusted her.

Eventually, the conversation died down, but instead of turning to leave, the soldier spoke again.

“Thank you for answering our questions, ma’am. We also have orders to search your establishment. It’s nothing personal, we’re searching anywhere the former queen could be hidden in all the nearby villages,” he explained. 

“Hang on, I answered all your questions perfectly— hang on !” Tib shouted as a door slammed violently open. “You have no right, searching my property without permission, breaking doors off their hinges—"

Anne listened as Tib followed them while they searched, growing increasingly furious. They ripped open doors and broke barrels of food and water. Tib hurled insult after threat after insult at them, finally smacking one of the soldiers with the butt of her ax. Their body folded to the floor with a heavy thump. The sharp ring of the soldiers drawing their swords mixed with Tib’s laugh.

“It’ll take more than three of you, you know. It’s a shame your fourth decided to stab my clean bags of flour with his disgusting, dirty blade,” she taunted.

They paused, considering her words. Eventually, one called her bluff and began walking down the hallway toward their hiding place. Anne steadied her breath and readied her sword. She and Ser Washington stood just on the other side, waiting to surprise them. If all went well, they would jump and kill the soldiers before they had the chance to scream.

Outside their hiding place, Tib roared, “Young man, don’t you dare open that door! All my ale’s either aging or fermenting, and a swarm of warm bodies will ruin everything. I’ll not lose my business serving ale that tastes like piss because you got it in your head that the queen is in there sleeping next to my rats.”

The soldier paused with his hand gripping the doorknob.

“Ma’am, listen—"

“You listen. Have you ever owned and managed an inn? I can tell you haven’t because of the shameless way you strut about making weeks of pointless yet grueling work for me. Who has to repair these hinges and barrels? Who has to order more flour? I bet the damage you lot have done to this place would add up to your entire salary,” Tib challenged, fuming. “I’ve half a mind to gather all the innkeepers in these villages and take that to the king himself. I’ll remember your faces. I never forget.”

Anne doubted the soldier saw an innkeeper before him. She couldn’t see his expression, but suspected it was the same mixture of deference and terror he gave to his officer on the first day of training. Tib spoke with a measure of authority that lowly soldiers like these men and women instinctually obeyed. Anne smiled to herself.

“You’re right, ma’am, we’re very s—"

“No, you know what, I’ve changed my mind. Go on. Open it! Then tell whatever usurper’s in that pissing castle that you personally owe me a bucket of gold and three years’ worth of ale. Or maybe I’ll just kill all of you now and tell him why I did it,” Tib bellowed.

Even without seeing her, Anne pictured the innkeeper brandishing her ax while she spoke, swinging and jabbing it in time with her words. While the soldiers stepped back to avoid her, she would step forward to jab them playfully in the chest with the butt of her weapon. Tib backed one up against the door, causing it to shake from the sudden weight thrown upon it.

“There’s—there’ll be no need for that,” he said.

“Oh! Good. Then leave my inn,” she commanded.

They scrambled, stopping to carry their unconscious companion, and then their heavy footsteps faded. Anne sheathed her sword, and the rest of the kingsguard did the same.

As soon as the soldiers left, Tib pushed open the wide doors, suddenly bathing the room in crisp sunlight. Annoyed groans filled the room as their eyes adjusted. Tib slapped her ax back on her belt and clapped her hands. 

Tib said, “Good morning, patrons. We almost had blood on our breakfast this morning, isn’t that exciting?”

“Hardly a thing to make light of,” Aunt Ann grumbled. “We could have been killed!”

“Please, you and your pretty knights were perfectly safe under my protection,” Tib said, waving her hand. After a pause, she added, “Your grace.”

If anyone else spoke to the royal family that way, Anne would reprimand them. However, scolding Tib was useless, and doing so for show was bad taste in light of the innkeeper’s kindness. And, though Anne would never admit it out loud, she enjoyed the blush of crimson on the aunt’s cheeks as she was put in her place.

Anne stepped forward to shake Tib’s hand, slapping her on the shoulder with the other. They grinned.

“Have we really ruined all your ale?” Anne asked, laughing.

Tib joined her. “No idea! Pretty sure that’s not how it works, but, eh, the stuff tastes like shit anyway,” she informed her. “Every time I have to brew, more of my father’s instructions seem to have slipped away. Think I’m getting old,” she said with false terror.

“Well, then, sorry about your flour. I hope it doesn’t set you back too much.”

Tib said, “Am I really that convincing? That’s good to know. Oh, don’t look at me like that—the flour’s fine. My oven’s hot. The fire will bake out whatever nastiness was on the sword.”

Behind them, the Priestlys, Catherine, and Aunt Ann gagged. Anne held back a smirk, but Ann let out a delighted giggle.

“Speaking of which, breakfast is ready, your graces and sers. Go on!” Tib said, waving them out. “And I’ll take you to the horses afterword, and get you out of my hair for good.”

They shuffled out into the main room, but Anne held Tib back.

“Those men will remember you,” Anne said solemnly.

“Good. I hope they see my face every night before they fall asleep. I hope they dream about how I’m going to gut them open, and they greet every morning by wetting themselves at the thought of me,” she said.

Anne frowned. Her friend wore a tough front and lighthearted demeanor, but Tib was too intelligent to not understand the seriousness of the situation. She threatened and crossed swords with soldiers in the royal army. They would return, and she doubted Rawson would hold them accountable for any crimes they chose to commit. 

“You can come with us, you know,” Anne offered.

“With you? Gods, how boring. I prefer the excitement of the inn,” Tib said, grinning.

Anne sighed, “Tib—”

“I know, I know,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself, my friend, I promise. It’s that one you need to worry about.” She pointed at Ann, frowning. “Something seems off. She only laughed once, and I don’t speak crudely to the royal family for just anyone.”

Ann’s admission the previous night returned to her. Anxiety clenched her stomach at the thought of being released from her oaths. Most of the time, kingsguard died defending the royal family, and if they didn’t, they pledged themselves to new rulers, but Anne’s gut churned at the thought of swearing an oath to Rawson. She would fall on her sword before that happened.

“She’s in a tough place,” Anne finally said.

Tib scoffed. “Why? I’d never want to be queen. Sounds like a lot of hard work and too much stress. If I were her, I’d be happy to be free of the burden.”

At a table alone, Ann fit small bites of bread and cheese into her mouth, chewing slowly. At least she ate. She looked somber and empty, as though the gods had finally asked too much of her. The bright gleam in her eye was gone.

“It suited her,” Anne said. “And I think she was finally beginning to believe that.”

***

Disapproval deepened the wrinkle between William’s eyebrows as he stared at Ann, dumbfounded.

“You’re giving up your claim?” he said, frowning

Ann hugged herself, looking nervously toward the others as they packed the horses, even though they were too far away to overhear. Even Tib, lost in a hearty laugh, looked like she had silently opened her mouth.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Oh, Ann, you—yes, of course you do,” he said, not unkindly. “We’ll negotiate with Prince Sutherland for an army. We don’t quite yet know what that looks like, but once we have one, we’ll take the kingdom back under our family’s rule. I know you don’t want a war. But sometimes it’s unavoidable, and general Rawson started this.” 

Ann was too numb to be angry. Instead, she sighed.

She said, “But why do I have to be queen? What’s the point? I never solved anything. No commoner’s life is better because of me. They think of me as—as a myth, a figure, someone that isn’t real. I’m so distant I can’t possibly know what their struggles are. General Rawson is surrounded by them—soldiers and commoners are his life. He’s seen the world. Why does it matter that I wear the crown and not him? Isn’t he…better?”

Ann didn’t want to believe the things she said. But she did.

“I imagine we’ll discover that our roads are in much better shape while we travel to meet your sister,” he offered.

“Yes, but—maybe it’s just better to leave it alone. Nothing I do matters. Everyone thinks I’m a fool—and don’t deny it, I know you do, too,” Ann said. She mumbled, “And you should. I am.”

“You’re learning,” he said. “It’s a process. You weren’t trained for it like your brother. You’ve only been at it for a couple years, Ann, it—it takes time.”

“That isn’t fair to my subjects,” she protested. “Especially the knights. They’re serving an exile! They’ll be shamed and dishonored along with me, if Rawson spreads the lies you suspect.”

The weight of their dishonor settled in Ann’s chest like a thousand stones. Her own shame was heavy enough, but Ann bore that for most of her life. The knights that selflessly pledged their lives to her deserved better than to follow an inadequate queen to her fate. She wouldn’t blame them if they abandoned their oaths and left. She’d forgive them.

William remained silent, as though admitting she was right. When he finally opened his mouth, she interrupted him.

“I’m releasing them from their oaths,” she said. “We—we’ll ask them to help us to Elizabeth. But after that, they can do what they like. Serve a different lord, maybe. Can you assemble them?”

“I—yes,” he said grimly. 

Ann waited among the tall, wide trees of the forest while William collected the kingsguard. She and her brother played among old trees like this as children. They played hide and seek, drew, and dared each other to climb the trunks and branches. Ann was never supposed to be queen, even then. It was always supposed to be he who bore the responsibility of monarch. She wondered how he would have handled General Rawson. She wondered what he would say if he saw her now, and tell her she was daft for defying the general.

The knights stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions betraying confusion and concern. All but Anne, whose expression was only serene blankness, the mask she wore when facing an adversary. Ann almost wished she looked disappointed, or angry, or sad, or however she really felt instead. Her knight was honest, and true, and warm. But now she was far away.

Ann took a breath, and met each of their eyes in turn. 

“I am queen no longer,” Ann said. Tears dribbled from her eyes. “My family no longer sits on the throne. I am an exile in my own kingdom. I will not condemn you, honorable knights, to the same fate. I declare your oaths to my family and I fulfilled. Leave, if you want. Pledge yourself to a lord who can take care of you.”

Their confusion turned to bewilderment. 

Ser Washington sputtered, “Your majesty—”

“I am not a queen any longer, ser. I cannot claim that title. ‘Your grace’ is just fine,” Ann corrected gently.

“Pardon me, your grace. But you legitimize him? The usurper?” Ser Washington said.

“He is a cruel man,” Ann agreed. “But perhaps he is what the kingdom needs. I don’t think so, but who am I to decide the fate of everyone else? Why should I ask commoners and soldiers to support and fight for me when I understand little of their lives? I legitimize him, Ser Washington, because I won’t spill blood for a cause I don’t believe in. I’m not queen anymore,” she repeated for what felt like the thousandth time, “and you are pledged to the queen.”

They stood in silence. Ann met her knight’s eyes, and she bowed her head in acceptance. 

In the quiet, Ser Cordingley bent her knee and offered her sword.

She said, “I have devoted my life to you, your grace. I feel the oath I’ve made is until my death, and beg to serve you for the rest of my life. I would repledge my oaths, not to your station, but to you, whatever title you bear, if you’ll accept me.”

The action startled Ann. She sucked in a breath, staring at the sword offered to her. It was a truly romantic and intimate thing, almost bringing her to tears again, but she steadied herself, preparing to refuse it. Her gaze flickered to Anne, who smiled. There was a cockiness to it that Ann didn’t know what to do with. 

Ann nodded to Ser Cordingley, who waited with her head bowed low.

Breathlessly, Ann said, “I will accept new oaths, if you want to pledge them.”

As she said it, the rest of the knights fell to their knees and offered their swords. They murmured their pledges like a child’s sweet, secret prayers to the gods. Not for Ann, but for themselves.

Anne fell to her knees. “Would that I could take you as my wife,” she whispered. “But I must offer myself to you again, and renew my oaths as the others have. Abandoning this oath renders any other meaningless. I would be yours, your m—Ann.”

Her knight was a noble thing. Even free of her oaths, she still chose them, not as a prisoner is bound to a chain but as the sun chooses to rise in the morning and bring the dawn. The oaths were her purpose, Ann understood now, but their price was one that each of them paid. Her knight was noble, but Ann was not. She selfishly wanted her.

Ann took her hand, pulling the knight to her feet.

“I do not accept yours, Ser Lister. I want a different oath from you.”

Without looking, Ann knew the outrage and disgust on her Aunt’s face, the disappointment on William’s, and the shock on everyone else’s. They looked frantically at each other, searching for the answer to the question—what was going on?

None of that mattered. In this moment, there was only Anne, and the knowledge that no one could hurt them. Not the gods, for Anne fulfilled her oaths and was free of their bonds. Not her family or her duty to the kingdom, for their power was stolen. And not fate, for however hard it tried to tear them apart, they loved each other despite it.

In the presence of her family, the former kingsguard, and the gods who looked down upon her with revulsion, Ann kissed her.

Chapter Text

Held comfortably in Anne’s arms in broad daylight, Ann felt like she was living in a fantasy world she didn’t deserve. They galloped away from the Stag’s Head on Argus, her knight’s eyes fixed studiously forward, but Ann was lost in the events of the morning as if in a dream.

Ann’s lips and waist still buzzed from Anne’s gentle touch. Though her eyes were closed, her imagination saw them as they were imprinted on the eyes that bore witness to the kiss; Anne, her hair streaked silver and dark and wild, her expression sharp and serious, bent down to caress her while Ann—meek, small, and dull in comparison—reached out to meet her by standing on her toes and gripping Anne’s shoulders. Their bodies pressed flush together, holding each other like nothing could separate them again. Ann didn’t deserve her, but claimed her anyway.

Surrendering the crown carved a hollowness in her gut, like a cavern she rushed to fill before the brittle structure collapsed in on itself. The loss of her kingdom granted her freedom, but there had to be a price. Somehow, Ann would be punished for salvaging enjoyment from it. 

In Anne’s arms, the cold didn’t bite at her skin. She was safe from the harsh things that nipped and tore away at her, piece by piece. Fear of a loneliness she remembered with the far-away quality of a dream gripped her. How did she not wither away in Anne’s absence? How did bits of her not lift into the air like smoke, gone forever? She remembered crying into the early morning hours, and an ache in her stomach that stole her appetite and worsened when she forced herself to eat.

When Anne let go of her, even though she smiled, Ann was afraid. 

Immediately, her aunt’s rage buffeted her like a great wind. 

Taking Ann aside like she was a child to be scolded, Aunt Ann said, “You have shamed your father’s legacy. I pity your father, that he doomed his daughter by taking the service of a knight that would dishonor her oaths and manipulate you into taking her as a consort.”

“She never—”

“But that’s what everyone will see, a dishonored knight and an exiled queen,” Aunt Ann pressed, “Eventually, you will learn that the truth doesn’t matter. Sometimes, it just doesn’t matter. But it’s too late to listen to me…I can only lament that your father might have instilled some sense in you before he passed.”

Ann loved her aunt. Her disappointment and rejection settled in Ann’s bones like a deep ache. The joy, elation, and courage that rang through Ann’s body only minutes before seemed far away, and lessened because her aunt did not see it. Ann wondered what her aunt saw between them, if not the kind of love that was worth a kingdom all on its own. Perhaps she saw nothing at all.

On Argus, Ann drew her knight’s arm tighter around her. Her closeness could not take back the things her aunt said, or remove the ache that churned in her stomach, but it did take away the nip of the wind on the back of her neck. She shivered when Anne kissed behind her ear.

Anne murmured, “Are you cold?”

Ann was a lot of things. Cold, afraid, hurting, and inexplicably lonely. She wished she could tell Anne about the feelings swirling within her without having to say them aloud or give them names. Without having to explain.

Instead, she said, “Yes,” because it was close enough.

Argus slowed to a trot. Anne pulled a bear fur cloak from her bag and draped it over Ann’s shoulders. It was soft, warm, and perfect for a frigid autumn morning. Its weight settled on her shoulders, grounding her, and she felt a little better.

Anne kissed her. The kiss on her cheek felt like a thousand fur cloaks. Her touch was like medicine, and Ann wondered if the knight felt like a doctor instead, always applying it. How annoying Ann was. How small. How parasitic, taking so much while giving so little.

Ann opened her mouth to apologize for her stupidity and foolishness, but Anne seemed to know, and kissed it away.

Instead, Ann said, “Thank you.”

“Is this…going to happen all the time?” a small voice piped from behind them.

Ann turned. The squire sat on a young horse with most of their things. Before they left, Anne instructed the squire how to sit properly, showed her basic hand signals, and gave her a wooden practice sword to wear. While Anne ran through the basic tenets of squirehood, the girl was at rapt attention, drinking in every word. 

At the end, Anne added, “And I’m not your mother. I won’t set your tent. I won’t sew your clothes. I won’t ask you what you want for dinner. You’re here to learn from me, and my payment is your servitude. That’s it.”

Aghast, the girl said, “Do mothers really do all that?”

The question had saddened Ann, but the corners of Anne’s lips twitched in a smile. She directed the girl to finish packing the horse, had her take the horse for a gallop around the village to see how she handled him, and then they left.

“Well, is it?” Eliza repeated, holding the reins of her horse awkwardly to cross her arms. “All the kissing? Aren’t you the queen? Can she do that?”

The squire seemed more excited than judgmental. Anne already seemed to regret her decision to take a squire, rolling her eyes while the girl spoke.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” Anne growled.

“I’m here to learn!” she protested.

Anne pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, don’t ask so many. I’ll only answer a limited amount from you each day, and they’d better be good, worthwhile questions. Make them count.”

Eliza tapped her chin. “How many questions?”

“Do you think of that question as an example of a good, worthwhile question?” Anne countered.

The squire pondered for a moment before answering, “Yes.”

“Well, unfortunately you’ve filled your question quota for the day already, so I can’t answer it,” Anne said.

Eliza scoffed, “You didn’t answer any of them!”

“Because none of them were good or worthwhile,” Anne scolded sharply.

After a deep breath, Ann looked at their surroundings for the first time. Though she never visited Elizabeth in her new home, she knew the fastest way there was to take Walker Road, which spanned the length of her kingdom. It was an old, wide, and well-travelled road, immediately distinguishable from any other. However, they were on a newer one, its identical stones cut and laid evenly, and just wide enough for two horses to walk side by side.

“This isn’t Walker Road,” Ann observed. 

Anne nodded. “We’re taking a bit of a roundabout way. Rawson probably suspects that you’d flee to your sister’s kingdom. By the time we hit the main road there, he should think you long out of his reach.”

“We’re going…near the Wilds?” Ann asked shyly.

Ann’s father always told her the Wilds was a dangerous place. To this day, she didn’t know how many of his stories about the creatures that lived there were true. There were wolves the size of bears, villages of dangerous people that lived in hollowed-out trees, and sorcerers who practiced magic. Ann’s heart raced while she recounted his fearsome stories. If magic was real, what other stories were?

“Yes. Just near the edge—far enough in that bandits won’t see us coming, but not so far in that we stumble across the beasts,” Anne said. “Is that all right? We can chance Walker Road if it isn’t.”

“I’ve heard there are faeries in the Wilds, your grace,” Eliza said matter-of-factly, pulling up beside them.

Anne glared at her. “Where did you hear this from?”

“Oh, stories,” Eliza said, waving a hand.

Anne snapped, “Your liege lord shouldn’t be bothered with information gathered from stories or fictitious nonsense. If she honors you by asking for your advice, you tell her what you know, where you learned it from, and why it’s important. If she does not honor you by asking, you prioritize her safety silently .”

Eliza shrugged. “Thought maybe it might be fun to see if it’s true, that’s all,” she grumbled.

Ann said, “Are the others taking Walker Road?”

Anne, the squire, and she separated from the rest of her family and the kingsguard— former kingsguard, she reminded herself—an hour after they left the Stag’s Head. She hadn’t asked why or where they were going; she was too tired and numb to care.

“No. They’re dipping south and coming around,” Anne said. “They took a carriage. They’re posing as lesser nobility on the way to introduce themselves to your sister’s court.”

“I bet my aunt loved that idea,” Ann said with a laugh.

“She would have rejected it if I suggested it,” Anne agreed. “Luckily, it was Ser Washington. I let him lead the discussion after—well. To let some of those attended recover from the shock.”

When Ann met her eyes, her knight blushed.

Ann smiled. She said, “You needed to recover?”

“You could have told me you were going to do it,” Anne said. “I knew you wouldn’t let me get away with reswearing my oaths, but I didn’t expect you to—to want everything in the open. I should have, though, now that I think about it. The way you set up that kiss at the tourney all those months ago. You’re absolutely devious when you put your mind to it,” she teased.

“I…didn’t really plan it,” Ann admitted. “Sometimes you make me feel brave.”

“Mmm. Well, I hope you don’t take what I said as a complaint,” Anne murmured, leaning in. “Your bravery always leads to something exciting.”

Ann brushed her lips, then tucked her face under Anne’s chin. All her bravery was gone. A new fear wormed its way into her gut; what if the gods took more than her crown and their blessing? Ann, free of her crown, and her knight, free from her oaths, were cursed to fall apart in the aftermath. 

Ann’s mind turned through the children’s stories she once held close to her heart. They were fantasies she could climb into to escape, but now they only reminded her of what the world lacked. Ann searched between the lines, through meaning, setting, and plot for something simpler—a template for reality. An example of what to do when all was lost. But the pages always ended here—she surrendered everything, the world stripped away the rest, then she offered herself to her lover, bare, exposed, clean of worldly possessions and duties, and Anne accepted her. She was supposed to be happy or dead. 

“I’m not brave anymore,” Ann said. Her voice cracked. “You’ll get bored of me. You have no oaths binding us together anymore, you’ll grow tired of me and leave. That’s our curse. Our stories are always cursed.”

Anne kissed the top of her head while she cried. She said all the things she was supposed to say—that they weren’t cursed, stories weren’t reality, and she’d fight death itself to keep Ann close. Ann believed that her knight believed those things. Her own doubt was louder, and howled in her mind like a siren’s song, pulling her under. 

***

In the evening, they made camp just into the trees off the side of the road. Anne was apprehensive about lighting a fire in case there were soldiers nearby, so their dinner consisted of cold bread and cheese. Eliza ate everything in a single bite and fell immediately asleep, curled in her small, ratty sleeping bag near the horses. The squire snored loudly, and Anne rubbed a headache from her forehead.

“Between the two of you, we might as well have lit a fire,” Anne grumbled. “Everything in this forest will hear us.”

Ann didn’t say much, picking at the dry, flaky bread to busy her hands. Anne watched her through the graying light. Concern knit her eyebrows together.

She said, “Ann? Is everything alright?”

Ann didn’t want to be upset. She didn’t want to talk about the things that were exhausting to feel. She didn’t want to pour out her troubles and emotions and half-baked conflicting ideas for Anne to look at her with pity—or worse—tell her she was foolish to worry about things that couldn’t be solved. Even as it brought her to tears, Ann knew it was foolish. 

That was the hardest to explain to someone who didn’t understand. Ann knew , and yet, there was nothing she could do. It washed over her like a storm, and Ann could only wait for it to end, like a banner twirling and snapping in its winds. She could not stop the wind. She could not make a tumbling, flowing fabric suddenly rigid. The only thing she could do was wait, hoping the threads were still intact when it ended.

“No,” Ann answered simply.

Ann wanted warmth. She wanted comfort. She wanted Anne’s arms around her, telling her anything, as long as her voice was soft and kind. A storm was an environment, not a container, and anything could enter its throes. Ann wanted her knight, who looked handsome in the rain, and laughed as the wind tried to throw her. She wanted Anne to see the storm, and wait with her.

“You’ll be all right,” Anne assured her. “Your sister will take care of us. If not—”

“Stop, please. I know. It—that doesn’t help,” Ann said. 

Her knight looked as helpless as Ann felt. She set her dinner aside and gathered Ann close.

Anne’s large, strong hands rubbed gentle circles on her back. They started at the base of her spine and worked up. Ann forgot everything but the hard heel of Anne’s hands, her calloused fingertips, and the light scratch of her nails. Anne found the places where Ann was tense and worked them, first with the light prodding of her fingertips, then the heavy heel of her hand. Her free hand traced gentle, flowing lines with her fingertips, and Ann followed them behind closed eyes, trying to guess their shapes. Ann keened when the knight reached between her shoulder blades, and groaned while she teased each knot loose. 

Anne smirked. “Always so loud,” she said. “No matter where I touch you.”

She would entrust Anne with the stewardship of her body if she could. Anne was much kinder to it, and read its needs as clearly as words on a page. As soon as she wished Anne would brush the back of her neck, the knight’s fingers were at her hairline, scratching gently.

Ann hummed, “How did you know to touch me there?”

As soon as she spoke, Ann realized how exhausted she was. Her words stuck together in a mumble, dribbling from her mouth like soup.

Anne chuckled. She said, “You told me.”

“Me? Or my body?”

Ann wanted to know how her knight read her so well. How she coaxed calm from her body in the storm. How she read Ann’s mind, as if with magic. Was she a sorcerer, as well as a knight? Could Ann learn that power too, and reciprocate all the feelings and sensations Anne gave her?

“Your mouth. With words,” Anne said, quashing Ann’s speculations before they ran amok. 

“Did I? I don’t remember,” she mumbled. She laughed lazily. “Thought you were reading my mind.”

“If I could read your mind, then I’d know exactly what to say to take all your fears away,” Anne whispered. 

Her finger brushed Ann’s bottom lip. Ann sighed.

“There’s nothing you can say,” Ann said. “I’d tell you if there was, I promise.”

With a tight-lipped smile, Ann opened Anne’s coat, fingering each silver button with care. Anne watched her tenderly, brushing Ann’s hair as she rested her head on her stomach. Anne’s rough tunic scratched her cheek, but as soon as she inhaled Anne’s warm, heavy scent, the fabric became as comfortable as finely-stitched cotton. Under Ann’s head, Anne’s stomach rose and fell with her deep, slow breaths. Ann timed her own breaths with them, and soon a heavy calm settled in her body and lulled her to sleep.

***

Ann woke at the break of dawn to the horses shuffling and whinnying nervously and Anne scrambling for her sword. At the lip of the tent, Anne turned to her.

“Stay here,” she mouthed, and put a finger to her lips.

Ann nodded, but peeked through the tent flap to watch. Her knight prodded the squire lightly with a boot to wake her, then stood at the rim of their little camp, peering into the trees.

The scrape of Anne’s sword against its sheath rang in the quiet. Beside her, the squire drew her wooden sword, holding it aloft with her face scrunched in a scowl. Anne arched an eyebrow at the girl, but ignored her, calling into the still-dark forest.

“Show yourselves,” Anne commanded. “Only cowards hide in the trees. I am a sworn knight. Meet my squire and I with honor, and we will not harm you.”

A hoarse voice called back, “Please, ser, we’re unarmed!”

Five bulky figures stumbled out of the trees with their hands raised above their heads. They stepped closer, and Ann gasped when she saw them. The three women and two men were thin and haggard, the bulkiness of their silhouettes from the sack each carried over their shoulder and a thin scarf wrapped multiple times to cover their noses and mouths. They looked as sorry and mangled as the vulturous camp followers that picked belongings from bodies after battles.

Anne didn’t lower her sword. She said, “What’s in the bags?”

“Herbs, leaves, flowers, those kind of things, ma’am—knight, ser,” one of the women stuttered, dropping to her knees and pulling the leather cinch to reveal the contents.

Anne stepped forward, digging lightly through the sack for any hidden weapons. Satisfied, she stepped back and turned to the others.

“And the rest of you, all the same?” she asked. They nodded, and she frowned. “Why so many of you? Why are none of you hunters? There are many things to eat in this forest.”

“No, no, this isn’t for food, ser. For medicines and poultices,” one man corrected shyly.

“This is enough to stock a large city for years,” Anne observed. “Do you sell them?”

The five of them exchanged looks.

“Our villages have gone ill, ser. Some kind of sickness. M-most of them are for funeral rites,” one finally said. “Between providing for the living and caring for the sick and dying—we bury them when we can. Which isn’t often.”

A plague? Ann wondered fearfully. No one had reported a sickness to her in the last months of her rule. Even in villages as remote as these, there were guards that should have reported any signs of a plague straight away. She emerged from the tent, refusing to cower under Anne’s sharp glare.

Up close, the commoners were in an even sorrier state. They looked as though they hadn’t slept in weeks; the grey under their eyes was deep and layered like tree rings; their skin was pale as a sheet or yellowing; their clothes pried apart at the seams or bore widening holes in the knees and elbows, things that were simple to fix, but instead were left neglected.

“Why didn’t your town guard report the sickness to the crown?” Ann asked them, frowning.

“They—they left a month before people started getting sick,” the man nearest her said. “‘Called in for duty,’ something like that. No one else has been able or willing to leave for that long. W-who are you again, ma’am?”

“My name is Ann Walker,” she said, likely to Anne’s chagrin. “I’m the former queen of this kingdom, and we will do everything we can to help you. Please, take us to your village. Help us understand what’s happened there.”

“Ann, it’s dangerous. You could get sick,” Anne hissed.

“My life is no more valuable than another’s,” Ann countered. “We’re going.”

The man and his companions stared wide-eyed at her. They didn’t seem to believe her, yet waited while Anne and the squire dissembled their camp, muttering to each other. A few dug in the underbrush around the camp, searching for roots and herbs.

After packing the horses, Anne knelt to look Eliza in the eyes. She said, “If these people were enemies, you would have been in danger. You have no armor. That sword can’t kill anyone, especially if they’re raising steel against you. My sword could snap yours in half and kill you in the same swing.”

The squire had the gall to put her hands on her hips and roll her eyes at Anne. Ann almost laughed at her nerve. She always wondered what Anne was like as a child, and whether her boldness and clever mind could be contained in a child’s body. Until this moment, Ann didn’t quite believe her knight had ever been a child. Looking between them, a smile crept on her lips at the slow realization that Anne had finally met her match.

Eliza scoffed. “No, it can’t kill. But it can hurt someone! And if they’re bent over on pain, or crying, and it gives you the couple seconds you need to come over and get ‘em, wouldn’t that be better than me doing nothing?” she reasoned.

Anne smiled. She said, “I chose my squire well. But I wouldn’t ask any untrained or unarmed soldier to fight, just as I won’t ask you. It would be a shame for you to die so foolishly, when you could live instead and take my place someday, wouldn’t it?”

“Train me, then,” Eliza said. “And give me a proper sword.”

“Soon, little squire, when we have the time to breathe,” Anne said, patting her on the head. 

Eliza glowered like she’d never been so insulted in her life. She gripped the wooden sword in her fist, then tucked it defiantly in her belt.

They followed the commoners to their village on foot, travelling the first half of the journey on the thin, winding road, and the second half through thick brush. They were deep in the Wilds now, Ann realized. The squire must have had the same thought, because she clenched her weapon and squinted nervously into the trees.

Three hours later, the rush of a river filled the air, muting every other sound with white noise. They increased their pace, looping through well-worn foot trails and crossing old stone bridges bristling with bright green moss. Ann never travelled anywhere so remote. It was beautiful, until they crossed the boundary of the village itself.

Ann smelled the dead before she saw them. She smelled the way their skin bloated and cracked, heard the flies buzzing over the rushing water nearby, and stumbled to her knees from the force of the stench. She and Eliza vomited, retching over and over as they gasped for more spoiled air, then heaved as their bodies rejected it. Anne held her hair out of the way, rubbing her arms and shoulders to give some relief. Her knight said something to one of the villagers, and the man ran into town.

He returned a minute later with a yellowed cloth with spices and incense folded in for each of them. Ann held it over her mouth and nose and inhaled. The thick, musky incense barely covered the stench of rot permeating the air, but calmed her twisting stomach. 

“This will fight against the sickness, and prevent it from tainting you. This is the same mixture in our scarves,” he said.

The sea of bodies was overwhelming. It was difficult to tell who was dead and who was not, until someone meandered over to a body and tipped a spoonful of broth in their mouth. Some spit it out, sputtering and gasping like they nearly drowned, while others accepted it with a murmur of thanks or a prayer, drinking enough to wet their lips.

“How long since the first?” Ann asked, her voice muffled from the cloth.

“Oh…three weeks, now? Four? Time’s been—well, time goes differently when you’re working every minute of the day and your friends and family’re dying around you,” he said grimly. “Maybe it’s been longer, ma’am, I don’t know.”

He showed them around the village. Before the sickness struck it, it would have been a quaint settlement, its occupants mostly fishermen and trappers. The sick were divided by the severity of the illness, the worst laid out at the edge of town where they arrived, covered in boils, pus, and blood. Farther into the village, boils became less inflamed, and patients more conscious. They paused near a boy with tiny boils smattered across his cheeks and arms, his head sagging between his shoulders. He was younger than Eliza. 

He furrowed his eyebrows when he saw Ann, and said, “M-mom?”

“How long do they have?” Ann asked, kneeling next to him. She feared the answer.

“Hopefully, the length of a normal life,” he said. “They’re being treated. The village further north has a woman that makes medicine from the river. Some were too far gone, but the ones whose boils were smaller—it—it saved their lives, ma’am. They’d have followed their loved ones to the grave in a week’s time. This one’s lost both his parents,” he added, gesturing to the boy.

Ann wanted to reach out to the little boy and comfort him. She wanted to take the weight of his grief and anger for the mother he would struggle to remember forever, but knew it was impossible. Ann’s own grandmother died when she was young. Her face was lost in a sea of memories, save for a single painting of a young woman with light, gold-flecked eyes, soft brown hair, and a delicate, silver crown on her head. Ann used to sit under her portrait in the grand room and stare, wondering if her touch was as soft as her smile, or her words as soothing as her posture.

When Ann was fifteen, her father said the painting was a poor rendering of his mother. He meant well, but Ann wished he’d let her believe. Made-up memories and wishful dreams of a woman she never knew vanished and turned to nothing instead.

At the thought of her father, tears welled in her eyes. Ann missed her parents. The loss carved her out each day, and the tiniest things reminded her of them. Grief was not a thing she could bear for the boy, strip away, or heal. He could only learn to sit with it, like a vase on a shelf. She pitied him; nothing was a difficult thing to learn how to do.

When Ann was queen and bore the blessing of the gods, she did not have the power to stop disease and death from happening. Nothing she did made a lick of difference to the commonfolk. Behind the castle walls, she could never affect their reality, unlike soldiers and knights, who could leap to defend them with swords, shields, and horses, or healers and priests, who knew how to ease their pain. 

Maybe she could ask Anne to train her, but she would never be as good. Her tiny, meek body would be more of a burden than a blessing. Any sword she held would be more deserving of another’s hands. Useless. Ann blinked her tears away, but they spilled down her cheeks instead.

Anne furrowed her eyebrows. She said, “The next village is through the Wilds and across the river. How did they make it through the Wilds so quickly? It’s a treacherous journey. It should take weeks, at least.”

“The new roads, ser. The army came through early last year and cut a road straight through, with watchtowers on the hills and a bridge over the river. We man them ourselves now, but it’s safer than before. Bandits aren’t as keen, and the beasts don’t like the openness,” he said.

Ann’s roads made a difference. She waited for pride to swell her chest and brighten her mood, but it was difficult to salvage satisfaction from such a grim situation. It didn’t feel right. Instead, she felt like a wretch for trying. 

Anne watched her expression fall. Her knight knelt next to her and pressed her lips to her hair.

“Perhaps the gods have forsaken us all,” Anne muttered. “First treachery, then the release of your blessing. I felt nothing when you released us from our oaths, as though they were already gone. Now there’s pestilence in the Wilds. If this reaches any of the major cities, not even the magic of a mystic could stop the death.”

They were supposed to be happy or dead. Instead, a curse descended upon them from fate, destiny, or bad luck. Ann fought to hush thoughts that couldn’t be true, but they swarmed in her brain until there was nothing else. 

Chapter Text

When Anne imagined a months-long trip across the kingdom with Ann, she did not envision spending a day digging graves for strangers. She had in mind more exciting and less dangerous activities, like staying at a bustling inn in the Northern cities, or holding their breaths in the dark, waiting to see a myriad of mystical creatures. They had earned the right to be happy, Anne thought. Yet, Ann couldn’t seem to bring herself to enjoy anything.

Digging was grueling work. The first few inches were wet, soft grass, then the shovel crunched when it hit the hard layer of clay just beneath. She struck the ground with the shovel, breaking it up, and instructed the squire to do the same. Between them, digging the graves took half the time.

Eliza worked harder and with less complaints than any squire Ann’s father forced her to take. She didn’t question the need for the work; she simply did it. If anything, the digging would begin to build decent enough muscle for the girl to wield a proper sword in a matter of months. She needed to eat meat to have hope of building any of that muscle, of course. Anne resolved to teach her how to hunt as soon as they left the village. She only needed to convince Ann the situation here was hopeless.

The villagers’ circumstances were sad, but there was nothing they could do for them; medicine was gathered, made, and applied; a second priest came from across the river to help perform funeral rites; even though there was less fish and venison to go around, the forest around them was brimming with roots, berries, and small game. Yet, while Anne dug, Ann meandered among the living, tipping broth into their mouths and making conversation.

Anne watched her with a small smile. Even in plainclothes, she was ethereal among them, sweet and kind. Even Ann didn’t see the effect of her own kindness on the lives of her former subjects: the roads she fought to repair and build were the reason any of them survived. Now she risked her life—breathing the same vile air—because she truly believed that kindness and love were more important than her own life. 

Her bravery reminded Anne of the surgeons that dodged arrows and enemy swordsmen to pull wounded from the battlefield, healing those they could and caressing those they couldn’t. One of those strangers saved Anne’s life. After cleaning her wound and wrapping her bandage, the woman held and sang to the man beside her, so he didn’t have to die alone. There was nothing she could do to save him, and still she knew that comfort was a blessing she could give. 

Anne swallowed the lump building in her throat, and returned to digging.

Ann didn’t deserve the thoughts that weighed her down like stones chained to her ankles. Thoughts of curses creased her love’s eyebrows and stirred a fog in her eyes, taking her far away from reality. Anne desperately wanted to guide her back, but didn’t know how to do it. She wanted to be empathetic like Ann or the battlefield surgeons, but struggled to know what someone needed, whether it was solving a problem, words of comfort, a touch, or something else. Anne wished she could fight the thoughts that plagued her love with a sword or a fist.

“You love her, don’t you? The queen?” Eliza said. “And before you ask—yes, I do think it’s a good question.”

“I do,” Anne said, grunting as she tipped the orange-brown dirt to the side.

“Then why does she seem so sad? Before this, I mean, this is…sad. I didn’t know death smelled like this,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think I could be in love and sad at the same time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Why don’t you think it makes sense?” Anne said. She plunged the shovel into the earth. It jolted her shoulders and elbows. She grimaced.

Eliza leaned on her shovel while she pondered her answer. She said, “Isn’t that what love’s s’posed to do? Make you happy? As in, not sad?”

“Can’t you be sad and happy at the same time?” Anne challenged. 

It was good to test the child’s philosophical mettle. Part of knighthood was learning the classic and religious texts, and their study blended old philosophies with modern realities. Reconciling them was complex, as they often contradicted each other. A young knight needed to know how to make peace with contradictions.

“I guess so. I feel both right now. Happy that I’m a squire, but sad that we’re digging a grave for someone who died,” she reasoned. “So I guess it does make sense, that she’s happy that you love her, but sad because of…a different reason. Why was she sad, even before we knew about this? She seemed so happy when she kissed you.”

“You can be both happy and sad about the same thing,” Anne said. She couldn’t decide if digging or the conversation exhausted her more. “She lost her home, her power, and her purpose in the world for the same reason that she gained being able to love me openly.”

“That seems hard,” Eliza said. 

They watched Ann offer a spoon to a dying woman. A little smile left Ann’s lips while she spoke. Anne wondered how she wiped the pity clean from her face, and wore a sympathetic expression instead. Fatigue drew thin lines under her eyes, and drops of soup dribbled off of the shaking spoon she offered. Anne ached to hold her and kiss away the wrinkle between her eyebrows.

The squire opened her mouth to say something else, but finally fell silent.

***

When Anne dug enough graves that her arms shook from the effort of holding the shovel, she stopped. The squire lay beside the pile of overturned earth, hair clinging to her scalp with sweat, and her chest heaving. Anne slammed the shovel in the dirt, and Eliza jumped to her feet.

“Finished for the day,” Anne gasped.

All of Anne’s worldly needs rushed to her awareness at once. She needed to relieve herself, drink water, and eat enough food for a dozen men. She needed rest, and Ann’s lips on hers.

Ann stood near a massive pot of broth while a woman stirred and prodded at the mixture. Bones floated near the top, giving it flavor, and the cook dropped a variety of roots in for substance. In the corner, the five that led them to the village sat on the floor, grinding their findings into poultices. 

“My love,” Anne mumbled in her ear. Ann giggled from the sensation.

Anne took her hand, weaving their fingers together. She was soft and warm, and the heat of her slowed Anne’s heartbeat and drew a long, deep breath from her lungs. She pressed a kiss to her palm.

Anne said, “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Ann turned to the villagers. Her eyebrows knit together. She turned back to Anne fearfully.

“Should we leave them? I don’t think—”

“Ann, you are so kind and sweet. You have done everything for these people you can. You have made a difference in their lives and deaths that is impossible for you to ever truly realize or appreciate,” Anne said gently. “Let me be sweet to you. You deserve it as much as anyone else.”

“You can take me anywhere, Anne, and I’ll go,” she whispered.

Anne led her away from the village and into the Wilds. Sunlight spilled between the leaves and tossed shimmering, translucent shadows onto the forest floor. She removed the cloth from her mouth, and Ann did the same, and they breathed the fresh air. Her lungs drank it in like cool water.

“What are you showing me?” Ann asked.

“Something beautiful,” Anne said, staring at her.

Ann followed her, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Have you been here before?”

Ann said, “This deep into the Wilds? No, I haven’t. I figured maybe we’d go for a walk together, and see how many of the stories you’ve heard are true. If we’re quiet, nothing should harm us, and the beasts will act like we don’t even exist.”

“You’re…sure we’ll be safe?” she said, grimacing.

“You’ll be with me, my love. I’ll always keep you perfectly safe,” Anne said. “No problem is so impossible, nor no beast so vast, that we can’t take it on together.”

Ann laughed humorlessly. “I don’t think that’s true,” she said.

“Then it doesn’t matter what you think. The truth is always the truth,” Anne said, and kissed her. “We did everything we could for that village. Let luck or fate do the rest, those things don’t care if we stay here. If this sickness is a plague, and it follows us, we will deal with that when it comes. But there is nothing more we can do for them.”

Anne squeezed her hands, pleading. 

“You’re right,” Ann finally said. “What about Eliza and the horses? Aren’t they coming?”

Anne grinned. “We’re meeting her later. This is just for you and me,” she said, taking her hand again.

They wandered the forest at a leisurely pace, stopping to look at everything. Ann admired the flowers, from the wide orange ones with thick vines and bright blue tongues to pink petals the size of a fingernail peeking out from the moss. Anne pointed out prints in the soft mud, holding out her outstretched hand to measure the sizes. Most were dried, their owners long gone. Birds sang in the trees, and thrice they paused, just to listen.

“Are there dryads here?” Ann whispered, squinting at the towering oaks around them. “How do you know it’s them and not a tree?”

“I’m sure there are. You never know unless you’re lucky enough for one to reveal themselves to you. It’s likely they’re listening to us right now, wondering why we’re here. If they wanted to talk, they would unravel themselves from the bark and branches, and tower over us,” Anne said.

Ann shied away from the tree she touched and leaned into Anne. Anne wrapped her arms around her waist while Ann peered deeper into the forest. 

“What about dragons?” she whispered.

“Very unlikely in a forest. Besides,” Anne said, wrinkling her nose. “You can always smell them coming. They’re putrid beasts.”

“Worse than—than how the village smelled?” Ann whispered.

“About the same. The first dragon I saw brought me to my knees with its stench,” she said, grimacing at the memory. “We’ve encountered the worst this forest has to offer us, I’ll wager.”

“Do you have to challenge fate like that?” Ann cried, covering her eyes. “Now we’ll see something worse for sure.”

“Remember what I told you? You’re with me, and there’s nothing we can’t take on together. I meant what I said. Let it throw whatever it wants at us,” Anne said. She rubbed Ann’s back and brushed her hair. 

Ann sighed, “I wish I could be like you. Brave. Fearless. Willing to take on anything.”

If only Ann saw herself as Anne did, she could soothe those thoughts from her mind forever.

Anne brushed her cheek. She said, “You are all of those things. Not many would have taken care of the sick and dying as you did. Without a thought, you chose to do something you believed was right, regardless of the danger involved. Few rulers—even former rulers—truly believe that their lives are as precious as a commoner’s. Ann, you’re all of those things and more. You’re too hard on yourself.”

Ann blushed. She said, “It’s just—I’d be more useful to everyone if I was a knight like you, wouldn’t I? I could make people feel safe. Defend them with my shield, defeat the evils that plague them with my sword…instead, I hold them while they die. Comforting, sure, but useless.”

Anne took Ann’s face in her hands. Gray rings still circled her eyes and her lips tensed in a grimace, but she looked happier than she did before. The joy and pride the last few days stripped from her began to return, first in the gleam of her eyes, then the curve in her cheek. When Anne smiled, Ann mirrored it, as though she couldn’t help herself.

“No. It’s easy to idolize knights—me, with only a shining sword and gleaming armor, against a beast so foul only bravery can defeat it! That sounds like a good story. Stories about surgeons who look death in the face even when doing their best, or queens who choose peace instead of conquest are much less romantic. The idea that all your problems could be gone with the swing of a sword—” Anne snapped her fingers “—easy. It is harder to be kind than it is to be cruel. When the world overwhelms you, it is more difficult to stay soft than it is to harden yourself against it. You are brave, my love, and I aspire to be more like you.”

Ann looked shyly away, her bottom lip trembling. “I love you, Anne” she said. “I—”

They both spun as twigs snapped and leaves crunched in the brush beside them. Anne drew her sword, positioning Ann behind her with a single wide step.

Just as shadows make things bigger than they are, the rustling in the trees that seemed to come from everywhere gave way to a small, furry creature who stumbled, quivering, toward them. Ann gasped and pushed past Ann to meet it. It cowered when Ann neared, and she offered her hand.

It was a tiny thing, slightly longer than her forearm, its paws and head too large for its body. Russet fur twisted in all directions from pointed ears to a long tail, tousled like Ann’s hair first thing in the morning. The slow, bleary blink of its black eyes looking up at them bolstered the likeness. A pair of leathery wings lay folded on its back. It looked like a wolfish gargoyle made of flesh rather than stone, its face still wrinkled from its mother’s cramped womb.

“What is it?” Ann whispered, looking at her. 

Ann stroked the soft brown fur between his eyes. He nuzzled her hand, and she offered her palm so the creature could rest his head there. He fell asleep almost immediately, then rolled his head when Ann scratched his chin.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before,” Anne said.

Whatever it was, it was a pup. Anne spun nervously, looking for a mother prowling between the trees, or perched on the branches, watching. 

“Never? Flying dogs seem a bit hard to miss,” she said, laughing as the creature wiggled its butt into her lap. “Oh, and so cute! An utterly unforgettable creature. I want to keep him.”

Anne took a deep breath to keep from rolling her eyes.

“Put him down, Ann. He has a mother—who is probably looking for him, and will attack when she finds us,” Anne said gravely.

“But he’s lost, Anne! He looks like he’s only just opened his eyes. What if something else finds him first?” Ann pleaded, scratching his belly lightly. 

Ann took him cautiously in her arms. His little body tensed and then relaxed, tucking his face into the crook of her elbow. After a wistful sigh, she held him up toward Anne so his large, round eyes stared directly into hers. 

Kissing him, Ann cooed, “Would Ser Lister really leave a poor, helpless thing like you to fend for himself? I don’t think so. I think she’s too nice.”

Anne absolutely would. She would leave it back in the underbrush for its mother, or an eagle, or some other foul beast to find without a second thought of its fate. Death was the way of the world. Anne could not, however, say no to Ann. Not when the girl asked so sweetly and smiled so brightly for the first time in days without the shadow of guilt in her eyes. Not when she held that beast with more reverence than a newborn child.

“Until we find his mother, sure. He can’t have wandered far,” Anne muttered. 

Anne inspected the brush where the creature appeared. There were prints all over, crisscrossing each other, from the same animal as the pup, only much, much larger. When she looked up from the mud, she discovered a den hidden in plain sight.

Sandwiched between a large, flat boulder and the grass was a pile of upturned earth and a clawed-out opening. It was less than ten feet away from direction the arrived from. Why hadn’t the mother emerged to defend her pup?

Anne grabbed a long branch from the brush, stripped the excess twigs and leaves off, then knelt outside the den. With the sword in her free hand, she slowly felt around inside the den with the stick. Her stomach sank from anticipation. Immediately, it prodded something soft and heavy, larger than the pup Ann held in her arms. A wave of pity she did not expect rushed through her. She sat back and rested her hands on her knees.

“The mom’s in there,” Anne said grimly. “Dead.”

While she spoke, a thin shadow crept along the stick. Anne jumped back, standing in front of Ann with her sword held aloft as a massive snake unfolded from the dark. Its scales flashed jet black and red, gleaming like gemstones in the sun, and its black tongue tasted the air while vertical reptilian eyes focused on the pup in Ann’s arms. Milky-clear venom dripped from its fleshy pink gums when it unhinged its jaw, poised to strike.

Anne’s face grew hot as the snake slithered closer. Anne knew how to read a person’s body by watching their feet, one movement leading to another in predictable patterns, muscles rolling like dominoes up the back, over the shoulder, into the arms, and guiding the sword. Parry, block, strike. Even dragons’ bodies betrayed them in a fight, from the long swipe of a tail to the guttural rumble of gathering fire in their chests. 

Nothing moved like a snake. Its head sat still and pondering while its body coiled beneath it. When it struck, it would be quick, and Anne’s sword was a long, heavy beam of steel in her hands. She slowly moved her hand to grip the dagger at her back, and as her fingers curled around the handle, she snake lunged.

Anne didn’t think, she just moved. Using the weight of the sword in her left hand to pivot, she drew the dagger in her right, and in the same movement slashed at the snake with a desperate cry. She missed. It sank its teeth into her left arm, and she hacked it brutally in two with two, three, four strikes, its smooth body torn up and dripping with blood.

Ann shrieked when it was over, and the snake’s head lay limp on the ground, its bright red blood pooling over the dirt. She trembled, then stared at Anne with wide eyes.

“Your arm,” Ann whispered, pointing where the snake sank its teeth.

Anne peeled back the thick cloth of her coat with a grin. She said, “I’m fine, my love. This is as good as armor. I’ll sew the top layer back together, and even a sword will have trouble piercing through it.”

Ann rubbed her forearm with a thumb, then murmured a gentle prayer, thanking the gods who chose to spare her. She kissed Anne hard. Her mouth was warm and tasted like salt. Anne gripped her waist, pressing them closer together.

 When she leaned in, the pup stretched his neck and gnawed Anne’s braid with tiny pointed teeth. He tested little bites, then clamped down, tugging hard while a high-pitched whine left his throat, sounding more like a toy than an animal. Anne wrenched the braid from his mouth, frowning.

“I think he likes you,” Ann gushed.

Anne poked his pink-and-brown marbled nose. He wrinkled his snout and sneezed. Anne grimaced, wiping away drops of saliva from her cheek.

She said, “He has bad instincts, then.”

Ann gasped, “Bad instincts! I think he just sees right through your tough demeanor, don’t you, little friend? Oh, Anne, we can’t leave him by himself out here. He needs a mom. Maybe even two.”

Ann looked at her with pleading eyes while the pup’s pink tongue licked her chin.

Anne sighed, “It would be a shame to leave him out here, with his mother gone…”

Ann laughed. She cooed, “See, little friend? You did have her pegged correctly. Soon, she’ll love you as much as I do. And Eliza will, too!”

Anne peered through the leaves and into the sky to gauge the time. The sky turned gray and overcast, but hours must have passed. They had to head back. Anne wanted to leave the village as soon as possible. When Anne suggested they turn around, Ann frowned.

Ann said, “We never found what you wanted to show me.”

Ann’s smile was brighter than the sun. She carried herself as though she might float into the air at any moment, instead of slumping as though a great weight rested upon her shoulders. Her joy was a beautiful thing, and they managed to salvage it somewhere in the forest.

Anne grinned. “We did.”

Chapter Text

When Anne pointed to where they were on the map, Ann didn’t believe her. If her castle—and the city she knew all her life—lay just left of center of the kingdom like a heart in a human body, they were at its opposite, following one of the old roads on the Western side of the kingdom and settling in an unassuming inn in the round of the North for a night. 

Ann followed the trail of Anne’s finger on the inked parchment with wondrous eyes as she outlined the path they followed in the last month. Northwest, parallel to Walker road, then fully west, in the opposite direction of Elizabeth’s kingdom, dipping south, and coming around near the coast, but too far away from the ocean to see it. 

The inn was isolated but inviting. Most of its patrons were farmers who travelled leagues for a drink with friends, or long-term tenets who kept to themselves. None looked over twice when a knight, her squire, and a lady asked for a room and a meal. Even the stable boy moved on after staring at the pup and Argus with a mixture of intimidation and awe.

“These people live at the edge of the Wilds,” Anne explained when she asked. “Oddities don’t trouble them.”

Ann lay in bed, listening to the sound of crickets singing in the cold as though it were a humid summer night, her mind flitting from thought to thought. She listened for the tiny whine of the pup, curled in the squire’s arms in the stables, or for the clap of Argus’s teeth as he chewed his midnight meal. Nothing. If they were there, the crickets overpowered them all.

She never travelled so far from home before. At night, her homesickness increased. Ann ached for the comfort of her own bed, its soft sheets, wool blankets, and warm, familiar pillows. The hay mattress she and Anne shared was itchy. Every twitch of her legs or shift of Anne’s body sent a spike of fear that a mouse had wriggled into the bed beneath them.

Ann curled against her knight, who was fast asleep, and tucked her face under her chin. She slipped her hands under Anne’s tunic, warming them against her stomach.  Anne woke with a sharp gasp. 

“Your hands are cold,” she murmured thickly.

Ann hummed a reply, but continued to smooth Anne’s chest and shoulders under her tunic. While her fingers followed the dip of her throat, jut of her collarbone, and swell of shoulder, Ann closed her eyes. She imagined the satisfaction of tracing the shape of her on parchment. Not painting pools of swelling reds and pinks across her flesh, or teasing emotion from the lines of her face, but distilling the curves of her body into a two-dimensional line of thick, black charcoal. She longed to capture that moment, where there was only peace, a simple serenity, the shape of Anne and nothing else.

Ann’s hands wandered the rest of her with increasing drowsiness. She fumbled over Anne’s breasts, sighing at their softness and warmth when she squeezed, and smiled into Anne’s neck when she rolled a budding nipple under her thumb and Anne let out a groan. 

The round weight of her breasts fit perfectly in Ann’s palms. She sighed. Ann added more lines to the drawing behind her eyes. Her breasts. The faint outline of her ribcage. The sharp cut of her jaw. Anne’s body was a myriad of lines and curves she ached to memorize, if only to grasp when she closed her eyes like a fading dream. But Anne could not be simplified—every time Ann touched her body, there was another detail to add.

Ann considered squirming out of her tunic and trousers to continue, but realized her bones were too heavy to move, and her brain too slow to think. She was tired. Guilt pooled in her chest; she didn’t mean to tease Anne, truly, but the prospect of continuing only exhausted her more. Ann missed her dresses, and the ease of guiding Anne where she wanted her, no clumsy fumbling of clothes required.

“What are you thinking about?” Anne murmured.

“You’re going to think it’s stupid,” Ann said.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Ann laughed nervously, hiding her face in Anne’s shoulder. She said, “I miss my dresses.”

She didn’t need to see Anne’s smile to know it was there. Anne said, “Oh? Why?”

Her reasoning felt somehow more embarrassing than the admission.

“Oh, I don’t know—they make all this easier. You. Touching me. And I miss how they make me feel. Like myself. And I miss the colors, especially in winter, when everything else is gray and dreary. I don’t mind the trousers, they make me feel a bit like you—but I’m not, and that’s all right,” Ann said, then blushed, realizing she’d rambled.

“Like me?”

Ann said, “I find myself wondering if I should play the part of a soldier or something. Be useful, like you and Eliza, instead of useless.”

Anne frowned. “You aren’t useless, Ann.”

Oh, her darling knight was so kind. She expunged those thoughts so quickly, while Ann pondered their white lies as if they could be true. Sometimes fighting them took no time at all, and only a suggestion as simple as Anne’s could extinguish them; sometimes the battle was timeless, and raged on like an eternal storm. Ann knew she wasn’t useless, but the thoughts plagued her every now and again anyway.

“I know, I know,” Ann said, flustered. “That’s just what my thoughts think. I don’t think that anymore, but sometimes—” she jabbed her forehead with a finger “—it can’t be helped.”

Anne kissed her forehead. Kisses could be healing things, Ann thought. She imagined all of her pain and indecision vanishing in a blush, spreading outward from the kiss in slow, curling tendrils, caressing the brain that caused so much turmoil. It didn’t deserve tenderness, yet tenderness was what it needed to heal itself. Tenderness, forgiveness, and patience—things Ann often lacked the energy to give. Anne shouldered the burden and set her free, a true knight.

Ann wondered if Anne’s anatomy books said anything about the healing touch of a lover’s lips. They must, she resolved; if magic was real, stories of knights, queens, and princes raising their dead lovers from the dirt with a gentle kiss could be true. She believed Anne’s mouth held that power. She felt it now, less like a heavy, surging force and more like a light, touching her with its warmth like the sun at dawn. It filled Ann with her own lasting strength.

As if reading her mind, Anne peppered kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, and her lips. Each was a gentle pinpoint of light, easing her back to sleep. Anne fingered the wooden button on the waist of Ann’s trousers, grinning.

“If it’s the ease of touching you you’re worried about, I don’t mind the extra work,” Anne said, unbuttoning it with the flick of her finger.

Ann grinned, heat flushing her cheeks and pooling between her legs.

“‘Your majesty,’” Ann corrected sheepishly.

Anne arched an eyebrow. She teased, “Oh, you’re taking that title again? Or just in my company? I’m beginning to think—hmm—that maybe you like feeling a little naughty, your majesty, fooling around with the captain of your kingsguard. Will you still want me when you’re my wife?”

“Y-your wife?” Ann stuttered.

Grinning, Anne said, “When we arrive in the kingdom, will you marry me?”

Ann was suddenly wide awake. Moonlight poured in through the window, outlining Anne’s ear and cheek in crisp white and casting her face immediate, unreadable black. Ann’s own face was entirely illuminated, and her knight able to see every wrinkle in her expression. Anne could see clearly the line between her eyebrows and the frown twisting her lips, but couldn’t know the guilt sinking her stomach.

“Ann?” she pressed, worry coloring her voice.

“I love you,” Ann began. She choked on the rest of her words; she couldn’t begin to string the rest of her thoughts into sentences that made sense. “But, couldn’t we—don’t you think—marriage is—”

“Too…soon?” Anne guessed, arching an eyebrow.

“No,” Ann sputtered. “No, it’s—well, it’s so political, isn’t it? Always tied to alliances, and wealth, or s-some other kind of statement. And we aren’t really making one, are we? Which is fine, but—but then everyone will think we are, and then they’ll make assumptions, and then it’ll all spin out of control!”

“We are making a statement. We’re in love,” Anne argued gently.

Ann laughed. She didn’t mean to.

“No, sorry, it’s just—Prince Sutherland or the king might think it’s a slight, wedding my former kingsguard right away, and maybe they’ll refuse to house us, and if they do that—” Ann paused, her face white as a sheet. “Mmm. Yes, m-maybe it isn’t the right time. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Anne crawled on top of her, and Ann saw that she was smiling.

Anne said, “Take the time you need. We can revisit this some other time. I have a more pressing proposal.”

Anne tucked her arms under Ann’s shoulders and tangled her fingers in her hair. She straddled Ann’s hips, then pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth. Ann turned her head, and her lips brushed Anne’s bicep. She kissed her there while Anne nipped and sucked the delicate skin just under her ear. Ann hummed. Surrounded by Anne, she felt small and safe.

“No one else gets her majesty like this, yes?” Anne said.

Her majesty . The title twisted her heart, changing forms as swiftly as a shapeshifter from children’s stories. Once, the title was a reminder of her father’s absence in the world. In the last two years, it swelled her heart with pride and filled her with purpose. Now it was bittersweet, but upon leaving Anne’s lips woke something within her she thought was dead forever.

“Never,” Ann gasped, tugging on Anne’s hair as she gnawed kisses down her throat. “Just you, Ser Lister.”

Anne nipped her shoulder and said, “For now, that’s good enough.”

It wasn’t. Ann wished she wasn’t a coward, and could give Anne everything she wanted. When she thought about leaving her family, her station, and her life behind, Ann froze with indecision. Not because she didn’t trust Anne to give them a good life—she did—but because when Anne said, ‘her majesty,’ Ann remembered what it was like to have a purpose, and wondered if she shouldn’t abandon her claim. Was it too late, and if not, would Anne loathe her for trying?

Anne undid the rest of the buttons on both their trousers with trembling hands and kisses. Her touch dispersed Ann’s thoughts like batting away a cloud of smoke hanging in the air.

“I miss your dresses, too. You’re right, they make this a lot easier,” Anne breathed.

Ann hummed while Anne tugged the trousers past her knees and around her ankles. The rough fabric scraped her skin and itched as much as the sheets beneath. Ann winced.

“Mmm, yes. I miss my summer dresses the most. The silk is so soft, Anne, like liquid sitting on my skin,” Ann said.

Anne traced a small circle on the inside of her thigh, her knuckle grazing Ann’s delicate tuft of hair just enough to draw a sharp gasp from her throat. She crossed her legs to find relief from the tension, and found she was already drenched. Anne smirked.

“Looks like that’s still true,” Anne said, beaming.

“Stop teasing,” she gasped.

Anne said, “Teasing? I’m appreciating your thighs. So delicate and soft. During those nights without you, I had dreams where I kissed and licked and bit your slick, warm thighs and nothing else. I missed how you taste.”

Ann laughed. She ached for Anne’s mouth between her legs, and would say or do anything Anne wanted, if she would only hurry. However, the knight was content to trace delicate shapes with her finger, brushing Ann’s hair with her other hand and watching while Ann laughed, hummed, and complained.

“Please, Anne. Ser Lister,” she said.

Anne kissed her. The touch of her tongue against the inside of Ann’s cheek teased a low groan from both their throats. Ann was butter in her arms; her body hummed; her brain swirled while her thighs buzzed, craving any touch Anne deigned to give her. 

She was a young girl again, longing for the knight to claim her body in any way she pleased. At fifteen, eighteen, twenty, Ann couldn’t have known that her fantasies would come to pass; Ser Lister was kind but distant, as she should have been to a naive girl who couldn’t know what she was asking. 

Now, with their bodies pressed together, chest to chest, hip to hip, their legs tangled and squirming, Ann gripped the knight’s shoulders to hold her impossibly closer. Anne’s hair loosened from her braid and splayed in rolling curls across her back. Ann twirled the threads in her fingers while the muscles of Anne’s back flexed under her palms. She added those lines to her drawing, too—tight circles, shadowed dimples, and thin, squared shoulder blades.

“What did you think about while I was gone?” Anne murmured.

Anne was more handsome now than she ever was in her youth. The wrinkles gathered at the corners of her eyes deepened when she smiled; her strength came from practiced movements rather than pure muscle; the silver in her hair and flecked in her eyebrow gave the knight an ethereal quality that reminded Ann of paintings of the gods.

Ann blushed. She ran her finger over Anne’s eyebrow, then the bridge of her nose, and brushed her lips. A trail of gooseflesh followed her finger. They shared a smile.

“Your face,” Ann said. “I tried to paint it, and draw it, but it was never right. First, I couldn’t get the bit around the eyes. Then I forgot which hairs were gray. I was afraid you were slipping away, and I didn’t want to lose you forever.”

“You didn’t,” Anne said.

“But I came close,” Ann pressed. 

“You didn’t,” Anne insisted. “That letter about the ocean was—I was never in any danger, Ann.”

“I just missed you,” she said. Saying it aloud made it real; in Anne’s absence, her grief was a secret, and it settled in her bones like a weight she could never cast off. “I missed you, and I felt heavier and emptier all at once.”

“I missed you, too,” Anne said. “But you have me now, and for the rest of our lives. What do you want?”

Ann wanted to be touched. She wanted Anne to hold her like a fragile thing and take her with a rough fury simultaneously. From the roll of her hips to her gentle, wet kisses, Ann wanted everything her knight had to give. She wanted Anne to claim her for herself, as she did on the day of the tourney with a rose, a poem, and a kiss.

Not knowing which to ask for, she said, “Anything. You.”

Anne pecked her lips and smiled, as if to say, “If that’s all you want.”

Her knight left a trail of kisses from Ann’s neck to her thighs. Each kiss—behind her ear, on her shoulders, between her breasts, above her belly button—was as gentle and reverent as a prayer. Anne nipped the skin and ran her tongue over the bite. Her nails scratched from Ann’s back to the round of her ass, drawing thin white lines that faded to red. She squeezed her thighs and calves, and followed the same path back, grinning while Ann huffed from the sting.

Her palms rubbed Ann’s reddened skin. Ann gasped from her touch, her brain flitting from pain to pleasure and back again. She longed for the gentle caress of Anne’s tongue on her clit, and buried her hands in Anne’s hair to guide her there.

Anne only kissed her, and returned to her thighs, her tongue trailing the dip of her entrance to the soft inside of her thigh, sticky with renewed arousal. The pressure of Anne’s tongue sent a flutter from her stomach to her fingertips. Anne closed her lips on the delicate skin and sucked, tickling her at first, then drawing a deep soreness to the surface. Anne’s cheek rested on her swollen clit, shifting irregularly with the tiny ministrations of her mouth. Ann covered her eyes, overwhelmed.

“Ouch,” Ann mouthed, surprised she made any sound at all.

Anne kissed the crimson patch of skin, her lips as gentle as feathers. Ann hummed.

“Not good?” Anne asked.

“Good, I think,” she said.

Anne brushed the other thigh with her tongue, then scraped her teeth over the flesh. A flourish of warm breath skimmed where Ann ached to be touched, and she groaned.

“ Anne ,” she scolded.

“You keep getting wet,” Anne explained with a sinister smirk. With only a touch of astonishment, she added, “It never stops.”

Her lips and nose glistened with Ann’s arousal. Looking at her sent a surge of heat through Ann’s body. Ann crossed her legs to relieve the throbbing ache between them. Brushing Ann’s tuft of hair gently, Anne eased her legs open and rubbed slow, hard circles over her clit with a calloused fingertip. Ann groaned into the knight’s shoulder.

Tilting her head, Anne took Ann’s bottom lip in her mouth, and bit down lightly, tearing another rasp from Ann’s throat. She brushed slowly with her tongue, then kissed her top lip with a chaste peck. The gentle insistence of Anne’s mouth continued for minutes or hours or days, entrancing Ann in a slow rhythm while her body sang with the sensation. Her lips buzzed. Ann felt nothing but the gentle scrape of Anne’s teeth, the firm pressure of her tongue, and the slippery command of her lips, over and over.

A hot ache surfaced between her thighs where Anne rolled her clit between her fingers at an equally dizzying pace. Ann’s eyes fluttered open, and found Anne staring, her earthy brown eyes warm and attentive. The look reminded her of Anne at the tourney two years before, her gaze bright and smoldering despite her hard-fought victory. 

Ann tugged on her arm and begged, “More, Anne, please. Rough.”

Anne nodded, pushing two—no, three—fingers inside her and kneading her clit with a thumb. Paralyzed with fullness, Ann thought only of the knight surrounding her, the hard, bulging muscles of her arm and shoulders as she worked, and the stories behind the scars cutting across her flesh, how her arms swelled similarly with the weight of a sword in her hand. She pictured one gash earned when slaying a great beast, and another from dodging a lethal blow as a youth. Now her knight lay here, gazing at Ann with a tenderness otherwise impossible to find in a world so harsh.

Anne’s fast, rough strokes shook her body. Ann trembled, gripping the knight's shoulders. Anne’s touch rubbed the tension from her body finally collapsing into the pillow while grunts and growls spilled from her lips. Pressure gathered quickly, crested with ease, and spread across her face like a burst of dawn. 

Anne kissed away the sweat at her top lip and brushed away the hair clinging to her face.

“Always so pretty,” Anne murmured.

Through shuddering breaths, Ann gathered her close.

Chapter Text

Though she hadn’t walked the paths in years, Anne could follow the winding forest trail with her eyes closed. Wide trees bore the marks of children swinging toy swords with sloppy, vengeful fervor, and small stacks of logs lay rotting and overgrown across old streambeds as unnecessary, makeshift bridges made for small scrambling legs. Skeletons of old forts under uprooted trees lasted longer than the little boy who orchestrated their construction, and for the first time in a while, Anne’s chest tightened with grief for her brother.

Ann sat on Argus while Anne led him on foot through the winding trails, easing him over fallen logs and large tree roots. The pup curled across Ann’s shoulders, blinking its bleary eyes at her while it licked at her neck. She curled his tail around her finger and cooed at him gently.

“Look at you, tiny thing. So small and cute,” she said, itching where his tongue tickled her skin. “Little nose. Little toes.”

Behind them, the squire tugged on the reins of her horse, chatting loudly. Who to, Anne wasn’t sure.

“—and then I told him, ‘Billy, you better not swing at me again, or I’ll hit you instead next time.’ And I didn’t even have a stick! He stopped for a second, but then swung at me anyway. So I grabbed the stick from his hands, threw it, and punched him in the face before his stupid eyes could even blink,” she finished proudly.

“Oh!” Ann gasped earnestly, giving Eliza a kind smile.

Sometimes she’s too nice for her own good , Anne thought.

Clicking her tongue, Anne said, “Why was this story important?”

“I figured, if I’m going to be in her queensguard someday, her grace should know why I want to be a knight,” Eliza explained, with no understanding of the gravity of her presumption. 

Anne pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“It’s a kingsguard,” she corrected, having little energy to scold the squire for anything else.

“But she’s a queen,” Eliza reasoned.

Anne said, “The position title is ‘kingsguard,’ regardless of who is ruling. It’s been that way since the beginning. It’s about tradition, not the gender of the person on the throne.”

“Well, if I were a queen, I would make people call it a queensguard, so they don’t think they’re protecting some nasty old man,” Eliza scoffed. “And if you don’t mind me saying, ser, if we always did things the way they were since the beginning, nothing would change, and there’d be no point to living.”

In fact, Anne did mind. If Eliza were to ever be knighted, her behavior would reflect Anne’s own temperament, her ability to train, and her professionalism. The squire needed to be disciplined for her mouth. Anne narrowed her eyes, but before she could reply, Ann rested a hand on her shoulder.

“If you dismiss her as your squire, I will personally have her anointed as a knight. And if I ever become queen again, she will take your place in the guard,” Ann threatened sweetly in her ear.

“You’re cruel,” Anne replied. “You like her that much?”

“She’s delightful ,” Ann gushed.

Anne grunted a reply, choosing to ignore them both. 

The trees began to thin, widening to rolling hills and fields. If one knew where to look, her family home grew in the distance, a small brown smudge among the wash of greens and yellows. Her family. Anne took a deep breath, dreading having to face them after so long apart. Nerves filled her head and stomach with nausea.

At the edge of the wood, Anne climbed up with Ann on Argus, batting the pup away when it turned to lick her. With one hand, she lifted him off Ann’s shoulders, arched an eyebrow at his high-pitched growl, and handed him to the squire. Eliza giggled when he ruffled his wings and nipped her arm. 

Anne picked his fur off her coat, grimacing. Ann helped her, her delicate fingers pinching the hairs and disposing of them with care. She smiled at Anne, and wrinkled her eyebrows when Anne struggled to return it.

Ann said, “What’s wrong? Are you nervous?”

Anne bit her cheek. Explaining the subtleties of their family dynamic would take far more time than they had to spare. Despite Anne’s talent to take complex ideas and distill them into layman terms, she doubted she could do it justice. Her family was like a spider’s web: however one touched, tugged, or struggled against it, the delicate threads trapped and strangled whatever encountered them.

“I didn’t write ahead to tell them we were coming,” she said lamely.

“Anne! They’re your family,” Ann laughed.

“They’re…dull. Their lives are simple, and because of it, they find drama in the smallest things. My sister especially,” Anne said, wrinkling her nose. “My aunt is sweet, though. If she’s feeling well enough, I hope we’ll get to chat with her.”

“I’d like that,” Ann said.

Ann squeezed her arm. Anne smiled with the corner of her mouth, brushing her thumb over the back of her hand.

“You remind me of her,” Anne said softly. “Kind and caring. Always willing to listen. She didn’t mind that I was—am—odd, or had loftier goals than anything a lowly farmgirl had a right to pursue. She’ll love you.”

“I can already see that it’s an honor to be likened to her,” Ann said.

Their noses brushed. Anne touched her lips to Ann’s mouth, and Ann laughed, then hummed into the kiss. Ann cupped her cheek, disarming Anne with her eagerness and sending a rush of heat from her chest to her thighs. Tiny, adventurous scrapes of Ann’s teeth on her lips drew a groan from her throat.

“You can’t keep doing that,” Anne growled in Ann’s ear.

“You don’t like it?” Ann teased.

“It just makes me wish we were alone.”

Anne nipped her earlobe, tickling the delicate skin with her tongue. Ann gasped. The effect of that sound on Anne was immediate; a surge of warmth reddened her cheeks even as a slow heat trickled between her legs. She had only herself to blame, and stopped immediately, cradling Ann while they calmed.

Ann murmured, “When we’re alone tonight, I want to revisit this.”

“Whatever you command, your majesty.”

Ann only laughed.

***

When they arrived, the farm was just as Anne remembered. The stables were made of the same worn wood, its sides still darkened from a small lantern fire that burned a corner off when Anne was a child. Her brother, Sam, rebuilt the damaged corner between army reenlistments. 

Despite the rush of memories buffeting her like a cold wind, the passage of time revealed itself in small ways. The new pine planks in the rebuilt corner once stood in stark contrast to the blackened planks of the rest of the building, but faded from exposure to dirt and grime; the new wood wasn’t new anymore. 

Anne led Argus to the second stall, where her old horse once stood. Anne removed the saddles from the horses while Eliza unpacked them. She stole glances at the house while they worked. Though the house was too far away for her aunt to feasibly walk, Anne half expected to see the three of them standing outside the door, waiting. 

By the time they finished, however, no one came. Eliza made herself comfortable in Argus’s stable, murmuring to the pup. Anne waited until she settled in the dirt, then snapped her fingers.

“Up,” Anne commanded. “You’re coming in with us. My family has no servants to send you food, so you’ll eat at the table today.”

Eliza’s eyes gleamed as though Anne showed her a great kindness. She smacked the dirt from her clothes, stomped the mud from her boots, and felt at her thick, snarled braid, as though there was time to brush it out and redo it. Anne shook her head. Instead of running her mouth as Anne came to expect from her, the girl only grinned and nodded.

Up close, the house was as unchanged as the stables, though it bore signs of the absence of a true caretaker. Years of wind effaced the cobblestones covering the first few feet of the building, and overgrown vines crept over the windows and walls. Rusted horseshoes and hinges, rotten wood, and massive, upturned stones leaned against the walls, as though someone had gathered things that needed to be fixed and abandoned them. Anne grit her teeth, making a mental list of all the things she needed to reprimand Marian about.

Anne paused with her hand gripping the door handle. She didn’t know what it would be like to see their faces after so many years apart. Time will have deepened the wrinkles on her aunt’s face and, more shockingly, her sister’s. The only things that weakened a body faster than time was hard work and grief, both of which no doubt plagued the three of them since the passing of her brother.

When Sam died, Anne became a soldier. Marian had accused her of abandoning them, and—though Anne would never tell her so—she was right. Anne visited the farm since, but each time their faces shocked her, so different from the images her brain locked away and conjured during rare, quiet moments of reflection. She remembered her father as a quiet man with streaks of deep brown in his gray hair, much like her own. Now he was balding, his hair circling his liver-spotted head in ghostly white wisps.

Though Ann couldn’t know why she froze, she took Anne’s hand in her own and knocked on the door. Marian answered, her eyes widening before she was able to speak. Gray rings circled her eyes.

“Who is it?” Aunt Anne called meekly from another room. 

Aunt Anne was no doubt in her bed, taking her afternoon nap. If Anne was alone, she would have pushed past her stupefied sister to reach her, instead of wasting time with introductions and pleasantries. 

“Anne?” Marian said, more out of shock than for their aunt’s benefit. “What’re you—"

“ Anne !” Aunt Anne exclaimed. The bed creaked as she sat up.

“I’m coming, Aunt! No need to get out of bed,” Anne called. “And I have guests—”

“Yes, you do. And why didn’t you write ahead?” Marian scolded gently. “Then I would have known to gather eggs for three more mouths and make an extra loaf of bread!”

“I’ll tell you later, Marian,” Anne said, waving her away. “And before you start criticizing too much, think about taking a walk around the house and look at how decrepit it looks from the outside. It should be an easy thing, getting rid of the vines. And one of the boys at the Wilson’s can clean or replace the cobblestones for next to nothing.”

Marian scoffed. “Hello to you, too. Who are—”

“These are my companions,” Anne snapped, skirting in the doorway. “Where is father? Can you fetch him?”

Marian stepped back to give her space. Through grit teeth, she said, “Sure. Aunt Anne’s in her room, I’ll bring some chairs.”

“That’s perfect,” Anne said, ushering Ann and the squire inside.

Wrapped in a shawl and a nest of blankets, Aunt Anne looked smaller than she remembered. Her aunt was never a large or intimidating woman, but she had a radiating presence that now sat only on her lips and eyes when she smiled. Like Ann, her delicate demeanor was a façade for the strength and uncompromising kindness of her spirit. Anne loved her.

Anne hugged her, her arms barely rubbing the blanket around her shoulders. Aunt Anne touched her cheek with a feathery hand. Anne’s lips brushed the lightest of kisses on her forehead.

“Anne, it’s so good to see you,” she said. She smoothed the shoulders of Anne’s coat. “And look at how nice you look! A knight, like you always wanted.”

Many years had passed since the weight of her sword, the stiffness of her armor, and the significance of her station filled Anne with pride. The king himself granted Anne—a peasant—her knighthood. While few could appreciate the magnitude of that accomplishment, Aunt Anne was one of them. It was easy to forget the struggle of sowing seeds when Anne reaped the fruit, until her aunt gripped her shoulders, taking her in with awe, reminding Anne that it was she who struggled first.

Through the lump in her throat, Anne said, “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

Aunt Anne waved her hand and scoffed. “You’re living your dream! I’d rather you be there than here, wasting away with the three of us. Your spirit is too restless for this life, Anne, the world needs your gifts.”

Guilt still stuck in Anne’s throat. If only she could take her aunt with her, and show her the things words struggled to describe. Anne could not fill her aunt’s ears with crashing waves, cawing seagulls, and the tantalizing hum of a siren’s song. She could not soak her mouth with the crisp, tart taste of an orange. Placing a sword in her hands wouldn’t swell her body with the muscle to wield it, the memory of a thousand practice strokes and dances, or the grim satisfaction of sliding the steel between a man’s ribs, commanding life and death like a mortal trespassing the realm of the gods. Aunt Anne would dream forever about the size of the world with no understanding of its vastness; however deep she thought the oceans were, they were deeper.

Marian and her father burst into the room. Her father’s cane smacked the creaky wooden floors while Marian chatted away at him, gesturing occasionally to Anne, with no regard for the pensive moment their presence shattered. Anne clenched her jaw, biting back a tide of bitter remarks for her aunt’s sake.

Ann’s gentle hand smoothed the back of her neck. Her touch eased Anne’s building irritation. Anne only wished they were alone, and her soft, healing kisses could strip the rest of her anxieties away. Aunt Anne noticed the change in her expression and smiled at Ann, eyeing her curiously. 

When they took their seats next to Aunt Anne’s bed—Marian curling her lip in disapproval, and her father resting his hands on the curved handle of the cane—Anne set aside her irritation with a deep breath. She snapped her fingers at Eliza, who scrambled to her feet.

“Now that you’re all here, I should introduce my companions,” Anne began stiffly. She gestured to Eliza. “This is my squire, Eliza.”

“Hello!” Eliza said, then bowed awkwardly under Anne’s reproachful glare.

Even Ann winced at the clumsiness of the girl’s bow. Anne would have to teach the girl etiquette. It was good to practice on commoners who noticed only that the girl was of a modest background, instead of her sloppy transgressions.

Anne eased her love forward with a touch on her waist.

“And this is Ann, my—we’re romantically involved,” Anne said.

Aunt Anne’s eyes gleamed with delight when Ann curtsied to her and kissed her hand. Her father eyed her fondly, giving her his best tight-lipped smile when she took his hand in both of hers. Marian looked on grimly.

“You’re in the queen’s personal guard. I thought you said that forbids you from all other lands, marriage, children, and—whatever?” Marian said, frowning.

Anne focused all of her willpower to keep her eyes from rolling.

“I wasn’t able to write ahead. You’ve no doubt heard about the uprising in the capital—or one narrative of it. The queen released her kingsguard from our oaths. We’re free to pursue what we want,” Anne said. “But I don’t trust the usurper to leave us alone, either. That’s why I’ve come back—to say goodbye—before leaving the kingdom.”

Anne’s reasoning was a series of little white lies, but the result was the same: they wouldn’t return to the kingdom for a while, possibly forever. Protecting Ann’s identity as the former queen during the latter half of the journey was paramount. She could trust her aunt with the truth, but her father and sister’s blathering could let anything slip. They didn’t understand the delicacy of politics, and it was unlikely they grasped the true danger the queen was in.

Loudly, her father said, “Leaving? For how long? It’s already been five years since we’ve last seen you, and months since we’ve gotten a letter.” 

“Well, seeing as the queen’s army is compromised, I doubt there will be another suitable contender for the throne. Perhaps the Sutherlands in the East will fight for their daughter-in-law’s claim, but I’ve heard nothing. Unless they go to war and the fighting is swift, I’ll be gone…for a long time,” Anne finished, grimacing. 

A stillness descended upon the room as her family processed. Anne’s absence wouldn’t affect their daily lives at least, and the farm was already out of her hands in a legal sense, but she wondered if a heavy, breathtaking grief might overtake them once more. If Sam’s absence could be felt thirty years after his death, then her own might linger on as well. She already missed her aunt.

Aunt Anne patted her hand. Her smile carved deep lines in her wrinkled cheek. The light in her eyes astonished Anne, who expected to see her red and puffy with tears.

“That’s fine,” she said with conviction, “You’ve got important things to do. Your duty to the kingdom is bigger than the three of us have the ability or right to imagine. Write when you can, and know we love you, Anne. This will always be your home.”

If Anne asked the world of her aunt, she would give it without asking for a reason why. Even when Anne was a child, her aunt trusted her judgement, only ever offering encouragement and guidance. Wherever Anne travelled, however long she was gone, Aunt Anne’s soft, rosy skin and warm brown eyes were always here to welcome her home. Anne kissed her forehead. 

Anne said, “Thank you for understanding.”

“Mmm, always. But before you pop off to bed, will you visit me? I want to talk, just the two of us,” she said.

“Of course.”

Anne’s father cleared his throat. Looking at Ann, he said, “So. Ann. I’ve never heard of you before—not that my daughter’s sent many letters lately—how do you know her? I imagine it’s some elaborate tale involving courtly matters I’ll struggle to understand once you describe them, but if you’ll humor an old man…”

“Oh, um,” Ann flushed, looking at Anne for help just as Marian stepped between them. “Um, no, not overly complicated. Are you familiar with jousts? They’re not overly ritualistic, I hardly knew much about them myself—"

“Anne, I need to talk to you,” Marian said between her teeth, drawing her attention away from Ann and their father.

“Marian—"

“I know what you’re going to say, Anne, and yes, it does need to be now,” she said, gripping her arm and dragging her to the other room. 

Anne stepped back and brushed her coat clean of Marian’s flour-stained hand. She curled her lip, speaking to her sister as she might a servant in the castle who was too curious for her own good.

Anne said, “Marian, whatever you have to say, we should be able to discuss as a family. This childish nonsense can’t—"

“That’s the queen,” Marian hissed. “Don’t deny it, I know it is. She’s a fugitive! Soldiers arrived just a week ago, saying they were looking for her, and knew we were your family. If they found her here, and us hiding her—don’t roll your eyes at me! We could lose the farm .”

Marian’s voice rose and fell like a bird fighting a furious wind. As usual, she was more dramatic than half the actors in the kingdom.

Anne ignored her. She said, “Did they say anything about a sickness?”

Marian scoffed, “Oh, have you brought that with you, too? How thoughtful, considering Aunt Anne’s health—she’s old, you know. Even a cold sets her back for weeks. I know you don’t care about us anymore—not since you got that title—but she asks me every day if you’ve written, sometimes before she says good morning to me. She misses you.”

Even as a hushed, frantic whisper, Marian’s shrill voice wormed a headache between her eyes. Anne doubted a pair of remotely stationed soldiers would threaten a spinster and a pair of elderly siblings with more than an arched eyebrow, regardless of Anne’s relationship to the queen. There was no reason for Marian’s anxiety, unless—

“Is Aunt Anne really that sick?” Anne whispered.

“ She’s old , Anne!” Marian said, exasperated. “This is the most animated I’ve seen her in a year, and it’s because of you. I know we get under each other’s skin, and I know the queen is important but—send her off, make her someone else’s responsibility. Please, consider staying. For Aunt Anne. She’s going to go soon and—never mind father and I, but—she needs you. But she’ll never ask.”

Anne tried to speak, but found her mouth was dry. Instead of waiting impatiently for a response from Anne, Marian bit her cheek and led them back into the room, where her aunt sat with a smile that faded like a sunset recedes into the earth.

It frightened Anne to see her this way, small, withering, as though death loomed over the one person she prayed was immortal. The fear that stayed her hand outside the door overwhelmed her. Aunt Anne couldn’t die. The world was colder without her in it. Without her, life meant suffering. Anne would surely have withered away without her aunt’s gentle encouragement, a bold spirit extinguished by the brutality of the world upon a lonely young girl who dared to fight it. What would it mean to be able to live on? 

Her father slapped his knee, his laughter out of place while the warm, bursting light tucked in bed beside him faded.

“Oh, I don’t know how she noticed me,” Ann said to her father. She blushed. “Men have handed me flowers before. Somehow hers was…different. I felt like a little girl again, hoping, dreaming , that it was more than a gesture. She was kingsguard then, of course, so it was only my imagination, but—Anne, are you alright?”

Perhaps she stumbled into the room, drawing her attention. Her mind and her body disconnected from each other, moving automatically, the tightness in Anne’s chest the only thing tethering her to reality. Ann reached for her, and she fell into her arms. Holding her close, Ann patted her cheeks and forehead to check for fever. Anne sunk into the sensation of her cold fingers. Only Ann’s tender presence kept her from barking commands to her family.

“I need to talk to my aunt,” Anne said. She kissed the tips of Ann’s fingers. “Alone.”

***

While the rest of them flapped their gums about nonsense, Eliza slipped out of the house to explore the farm. She’d grown up in them—mostly noble ones, with pretty horses and saddles and expensive things—but was never given free reign to explore as she liked. There was always someone following her like she was going to steal and run, foolish enough to grab a finely-crafted saddle and try to sell it to the first quartermaster she saw. Eliza was many things, but not an idiot; she knew she wouldn’t get far. 

Ser Lister trusted her enough to leave her alone. That swelled her chest with pride.

The Lister farm had so many buildings. Ser Lister’s family must have been here for more generations than Eliza could possibly imagine; instead of the pristine layout of the royal stables, these buildings were various shapes and sizes, haphazardly arranged on the dirt. Each was a different kind of old. Moss covered worn stones, creeping on to the wood above. A barn that had enough stalls for a dozen cows now held only one. Most of the buildings hadn’t been opened in years. Their heavy doors dragged deep paths in the dirt, the channels now overgrown with feathery grass and spotted with dandelions and clusters of little white mushrooms.

Eliza opened the first, buzzing with excitement for the treasures held inside. Ten minutes of effort yielded an opening just large enough for her to squeeze in if she held her breath.

At first glance, the inside was a dark and musty trove of trash. Thick linen covered crates of farming equipment, boxes of letters, and wooden toys smooth with use. Eliza used the blunt end of her wooden sword to lift the cloth, leaning away from the clouds of dust that burst in the air. She moved slowly through the room, uncovering each piece with the same reverence the excavation of ancient treasure deserved.

The first box of letters was written by someone with penmanship as good as Ser Lister’s. Eliza squinted at the unreadable, broken lines of text. Words missed letters. Sentences missed punctuation. More often than not, Eliza wondered if her brain was inside out, or the writer switched to a different language. Instead of bothering with what it said, she rubbed the yellowed parchment between her fingers, marveling at its age. The words on the page were older than she was.

The rest of the room held interesting but mundane treasures. A rusted rake with gnarled prongs. A leather pouch of smooth stones. A carved stone lionhead, protected by a leather and velvet case. 

A steep staircase dominated the end of the room. It led to an open loft piled high with more crates and linen. Eliza ascended the steps, stretching her legs. She channeled her focus on keeping her balance so she didn’t have to use the railings. Ser Lister wouldn’t, so she didn’t need to, either.

At the top, her eyes immediately caught it. It gleamed as if the clouds parted so some great god in the heavens could point it out to her themselves. Eliza was like a hero in the stories, led by fate to an enchanted object that would help her save the world. It sang to her, the melody like a wavering ring ears couldn’t hear but blood could feel. Looking at it sucked all the breath out of her lungs.

It was a sword. A real one.

Chapter Text

Ann’s heart beat three times as fast as the clock ticked on the mantle. When Anne kissed her cheek goodbye, anxiety slid like a heavy sludge across Ann’s shoulders, and sent her staggering into the next room. The image of Anne bursting into her aunt’s room played across the back of her eyelids when she blinked; Ann picked apart her knight’s pale face, shaking hands, and restrained anger to uncover what sent her into such a panic, but to no avail. The memory filled her brain until she didn’t know whether her eyes were open or closed.

“Ann? Um, m-miss?”

A cold hand gripped her arm. Jeremy’s gentle touch anchored Ann to the room. The clock ticked slowly. A fire crackled, the wood barely blackened by licking flames. Marian knit in the chair across from her, focused. The torso of a sweater. Gray, roughly spun yarn, hairs wild and uneven. Ann breathed in time with the clock, steadying herself.

“Sorry,” she finally said. “I’m just—just tired.”

Jeremy waved his hand. He said, “I’ve exhausted you with all our chatting. Their mother did that to me, you know. I used to be content with silence, a nap or two, a cutthroat game of cards. Now I need a conversation to pass the time.”

“N-no, it’s fine,” Ann assured him. “Please, we can keep talking, if you like.”

He chuckled. “No, my lunch is finally catching up with me. I’ll nap soon, whether I like it or not. It’s like this when you get old—your body needs certain things, and you are powerless to refuse, regardless of how interesting your company is.”

Jeremy relaxed in his chair, and, faster than Ann had ever fallen asleep, began snoring. 

Ann worried her sleeve between her fingers, looking down at her knees instead of the woman across from her.

“Oh, I hope Anne will be all right. I rarely see her so anxious,” Ann said. Her hands trembled when she tried to hold them still.

Marian replied, “Hmm.”

Marian didn’t like her, and Ann supposed that made sense. She often felt she didn’t deserve the affection of the brave, handsome, esteemed knight. It was only right that her sister would disagree with the match. Ann only wished Anne didn’t leave them alone together.

The only sounds in the room were Jeremy’s snoring, the soft clicking of needles as Marian knit, and the occasional gentle curse when she made a mistake. Ann folded her hands in her lap and stared blankly forward as she learned to do as a child during royal events. Behind her deadpan expression, her mind spun.

The Lister farm was quaint and lovely. Ann would not have believed the knight grew up here if it weren’t for the way she folded in with her family like an old habit. The shrewdness that earned Anne her position in the kingsguard manifested in her commands to Marian and a playful tension with her father, while the romantic tenderness Ann loved surfaced for all to see when she chatted with the aunt.

That was the strange part; Anne was perfectly herself around her family. Authentic. When she introduced Ann as her lover, they welcomed her in, as easy as breathing. All except Marian.

Marian coughed. Ann started, blinking back to reality.

“Do you like living here? It seems nice. Peaceful, calm, but always something to do,” Ann said cheerfully, risking a glance.

Marian cursed under her breath, then unraveled the top row of the sweater before answering.

“Hard to have an opinion when you don’t really have a choice,” she said shortly. 

Ann said, “What would you have chosen?”

“Does it matter? My brother chose to be a soldier as father did, instead of helping on the farm. Anne chose to run away under the guise of ‘doing it for the family.’ She chose to become a knight and leave. We’ve all been worse off because of their choices,” Marian finished bitterly. 

Resentment boiled her words. Despite Marian’s anger toward her sister and obvious disdain toward Ann, she felt a kinship with her. 

“I know what you mean. There are many aspects of my life I didn’t get to choose,” Ann said softly. “When my brother died, I was given responsibility for the legacy of my family. I didn’t get to choose. If I did—well, I would have given that responsibility to someone more deserving.”

Ann looked at her hands again. A familiar shame clawed at her gut, but she stifled it. The final months of her rule flooded back to her. Other than trusting a man her closest advisors urged her not to trust, Ann did not regret the philosophy that guided her rule, nor the decisions she made because of that philosophy. Ann didn’t choose her station. Instead of allowing her father’s shadow to smother her, she stepped in to her own light. She became someone deserving of the title.

“At—at the time I would have, I mean,” Ann continued. “But, you see, we all have our place. Sometimes it is impossible to choose. Sometimes one’s role is to be a caretaker when others get to be soldiers. Caretakers are important, too, even if some don’t recognize that.”

Marian stopped knitting to roll her eyes in the direction of the room where Anne sat with her aunt. 

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Marian said. “It’s all left to me, and that one comes home with the gall to chastise me about vines.”

Ann couldn’t help but smile. She thought immediately of Anne’s frustration when healing from the wound the assassin gave her, and how Anne moved the poor servant to tears when she tried to help. How typical of Anne to react to her own helplessness by taking command of those around her. 

“She likes to have control,” Ann said with a hint of pride.

“I’ll say,” Marian agreed. “And I tell her, if she doesn’t trust me to do it, come home and stay here, instead of running away when things get hard, or she gets bored. Imagine if I left because I was bored! Aunt Anne and father, fending for themselves? The second Anne got wind of it, she’d have my head.”

Ann said, “She only needs a little patience. She likes to feel that she’s in control. If you nod while she’s speaking—well, often it doesn’t matter if you agree with what she’s said, or that you do what she’s asked in the exact matter she’s asked it to be done.”

A smile played on Marian’s lips. She said, “You’ve figured her out quickly, then.”

“She can be a bit harsh and standoffish at first, but she’s really very sweet. Much easier to read than most people think—though she’d be annoyed to hear it,” Ann said, blushing.

Leveling her gaze, Marian said, “What’s your game with my sister?”

Ann frowned. “I—game?”

“I know who you are. If you have kicked her out of your service—which I honestly don’t believe—then she’s a knight with no liege, and as good as us. A commoner,” Marian said. “Anyway, it’s a poor time for games, with the way our aunt’s health is. Anne should be here, not—not messing around.”

Ann bit the inside of her cheek. No one in the royal family had ever married a commoner before. It was rare enough to christen a commoner with knighthood, and rarer still to admit one into the ranks of the kingsguard. Anne defied her common birth; the way she looked, talked, and acted made it easy to forget she once tended fields.

“If she told you who I was, you should know that Anne means the world to me. I owe my life to her a thousand times over,” Ann assured her earnestly.

“Then tell her to stay here,” Marian blurted. “Tell her—gods, don’t you dare step one foot into this house!"

The little squire stood in the doorframe, her clothes caked in dust. She held swathes of cloth and bulky trinkets in her arms. Old linen covered the items, giving the impression that the child hugged a pile of dirty laundry to her chest. Eliza watched with wide eyes as Marian scrambled to her, grabbing a wet cloth and a broom.

“Beat your clothes clean outside , and scrub your hands and face with this. And leave all of that outside, too, or you’ll get the entire house dirty. If you do, I’ll keep you here to clean for weeks,” Marian directed.

The squire balanced the broom and rag on the pile in her arms and stumbled back out the door. Marian rubbed her forehead.

“How do you stand this?” Marian muttered. “The two of them together, I mean. You, alone, with the insufferable know-it-all that is my sister, and a—a child? It would drive me mad.”

A smile played on Ann’s lips. “I see that,” she said, not unkindly.

Eliza returned minutes later, her face and neck rubbed red and still splotched with dirt. She shed her mismatched collection, but retained a sword she tied to her waist with a rope. With the sheath brushing the ground when she walked, it looked comically large, like a bastard’s sword forged for a ten year old. Standing proudly in the doorway, the squire grinned and puffed out her chest when Marian hurried toward her again. 

“Oh, no,” Marian sucked in a breath. “No, no, no, no, no. Anne won’t like that.”

Marian met Ann’s eyes, asking permission to scold the child. Ann stared back at her with wide eyes, looking between them, unsure of whose side to take. With a frustrated sigh, Marian held out her hand to the girl.

“Here, let me have that. If Anne sees you with it, none of us will hear the end of it,” she said. When the child didn’t obey, she added, “Please.”

Eliza started at her hand, frowning. A gleam lit up her eyes. She hefted the blade up to rest it on her shoulder, and sidestepped Marian with an easy laugh.

“No, thanks, ma’am. I’ll show her what I found myself,” Eliza said. “If she gets upset, I guess it can’t be helped. I want a sword. I’ll take the risk to get what I want. Are you or her m— Ann going to knock, or should I?”

Marian scoffed. “I’m certainly not—"

Eliza pushed past her. Ann hid a giggle behind her hand; just like Anne, the child refused to let anything step in the way of her goal, whether it was Marian, fear of Anne’s disapproval, or common sense. Her small, thin frame bulldozed them all, drawing strength from a reservoir too large to fit in such a body. 

Ann and Marian exchanged a look. Annoyance replaced the building rage in Marian’s expression.

“Gods, we’ve been cursed with two of her,” Marian breathed.

In many ways, the squire was her knight’s match, but Anne’s additional thirty years of experience gave her significant advantage. If Eliza wanted the sword, she needed Ann’s help. Ann met the squire at the door, staying her hand with a touch on her shoulder. The girl froze.

Winking, Ann said, “Let me—I’ve been known to diffuse a grumpy Ser Lister once or twice.”

She rapped gently on the door, and waited. 

***

Anne saw her aunt with new eyes. Beneath the radiance of her smile, there was almost nothing left of her withered body. Except for a bite of toast, her lunch sat untouched. Anne tore a second bite between two fingers, softened it in the broth, and offered it to her aunt. Aunt Anne refused, waving her hand.

She said, “Thank you, but I’m not hungry. I want to hear about your travels. I want to hear more about Ann.”

“You—you should eat, Aunt. Please,” Anne said. 

Aunt Anne gripped her hand with trembling fingers. Swollen veins textured her delicate skin. Anne caressed her, smoothing her arms and the back of her hand.

“Oh,” her aunt sighed. “I’ve missed you. When you wrote that you were travelling the kingdom again I—well, I wondered if that meant you’d have more time for writing. I’ve always been a fool, though, haven’t I, shut up in here? I would love to hear about it.”

“You’re not well,” Anne whispered. It wasn’t a question. “Marian didn’t tell me—I didn’t realize things were this bad. I’ll stay, if you want. Nothing else is more important.”

She said, “Marian worries. She has us all on her plate. Besides, there’s no usurper-king after me! Take that girl and keep yourselves safe, there’s no reason to put yourselves in danger on my account.”

“You are more important than any kingdom. If you ask me to, I will stay,” Anne assured her.

“No, no, remember your oaths,” her aunt said sharply.

“I told you, I’ve been released—"

“Not the ones you made to the queen, the ones that go deeper. The ones you swore when you were a child, do you remember?”

When Anne was a child and Sam joined the army, she knelt at her bedside nightly to pray. They were the narcissistic prayers of a child who believed that gods granted wishes like spirits, instead of impish beings who held dreams just out of reach. Anne prayed she would become a knight. The gods—who had designed the universe against her—laughed. But Aunt Anne did not. Instead, her aunt asked why.

“Chivalry,” Anne had answered proudly. “To help people weaker than me, who—who are struggling.”

In truth, her first answer would have been something like ‘swords,’ or ‘jousting,’ but her aunt never accepted such crude answers. She saw past Anne’s bravado to a deep ache to understand her place in the world and claw her way out of helplessness. The difference in her soul was that between the fervor of children’s swordplay and the practiced discipline of a veteran swordsman. She repeated her prayers but never felt the warm blessing of the gods.

“Those weren’t oaths, aunt,” Anne said, flushing.

Aunt Anne said, “They were. They live in the fabric of your soul, the sacred place, the place not even gods can touch. Is it chivalrous to drop everything for an old woman that will die, whether you are here or not, when there are others in greater need of you? No.”

Chivalry was the mask knights wore to cover their thirst for renown in tournaments. Chivalry was the romantic air surrounding them that drew women to their beds, royalty to their jousts and duels, and poets to their stories. Anne as a young girl knew these truths, but now, looking into the gleaming eyes of her aunt who believed them, wondered if chivalry was what made all those things worthwhile. 

Anne blurted, “Aunt, I—”

“I love you. I feel you with me even when we are leagues apart. So go. Do what you need to do,” Aunt Anne said gently.

Anne felt terrible about her dishonesty about Ann.

“I—I haven’t been entirely honest about Ann, aunt. She’s much more important than a nobleman’s daughter or a random lover. We are—we are involved, that much is true, and I’ve avoided saying so only to protect you, but Marian’s figured it out somehow anyway. She is the queen. I wouldn’t—you know I wouldn’t ever put you second, but this is...difficult.”

Aunt Anne covered Anne’s hand with her own. “I understand,” she said.

Despite herself, a flush tinged Anne’s cheeks.

Anne said, “What do you think of her?”

“Ann? She’s a lovely thing, so sweet and good-natured. There is a perfect balance between you,” Aunt Anne gushed. “Not like—like the other one.”

Anne arched an eyebrow, searching her memory for any other woman she introduced to her aunt. Though her childhood was rife with stolen kisses and sneaking into town to see girls during the late hours, even Anne couldn’t recall the names of any of them. She remembered the contents of dozens of letters fresh into her knighthood, and was powerless to stop a flush from coloring her cheeks. 

Oh. Mariana already seemed like a lifetime ago.

“What do you mean? I never brought her here,” Anne said.

Aunt Anne pursed her lips. She said, “Oh, but even in your letters, I could see. They changed. You used to write with this big, lovely, romantic voice—the things you would describe!” She laughed. “But then…they changed. You pruned yourself to fit her view of the world. All that excitement, all that awe—she took it away, I think.”

“I don’t know. There were so many things going on—”

“No, I’m sure. My dear, you served in the army for years. You witnessed slaughter that I can’t even comprehend. You earned a knighthood with the blessing of the king himself, and killed a dragon with nothing but your own wit and a gaggle of incompetent men, all before thirty! None of those things affected you as deeply as that woman did,” Aunt Anne finished grimly.

Anne said, “I loved her.”

“You did,” she agreed.

Anne arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t that all that matters? Loving someone—really and truly—means that you should fight tooth and nail for them. Isn’t that—aren’t we supposed to sacrifice the most for the people we love?” she argued, squeezing her hand. “It should affect me deeply. It should change me. You and Ann changed me, too.”

Anne didn’t know why she argued with her aunt on Mariana’s behalf. 

“You fought and sacrificed alone, Anne. You were lonely with her. That’s all I mean,” she murmured. When Anne tried to protest, she waved her words away before they left her lips. “No, no. I’ve made you unhappy. Let’s be done with that. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, I don’t want to fight. I—was that a knock?”

Anne heard a timid knock at the door. She frowned.

“It’s probably my father. Ignore it,” Anne said. “It’s been so long since we’ve—”

The knock changed to a pounding fist. Anne grit her teeth.

“Ser Lister! Ann wants to speak with you,” Eliza shouted, deepening her childlike voice as best she could. 

“Ann can come in,” Anne said sharply. In the event the child chose not to hear the implication, she added, “And no one else.”

Eliza groaned, “Ser—”

Anne swung the door open, and the child stumbled forward, caught off balance by the sword sloppily strapped to the waist. Anne recognized the weapon immediately. Something—she didn’t quite know what it was just yet—bubbled in her gut at the site of it. Ann smiled sheepishly behind the child.

“You didn’t want to talk to me at all,” Anne accused.

“Eliza has something to ask,” Ann prompted the squire.

Eliza drew the sword at her waist. The blade wavered in the air as she held it aloft, her arms trembling with the effort to hold it. 

The squire said, “You said—you said you’d train me with a real sword when we found one. I was peeking around in one of those old barns, and I thought maybe—”

“You look like a fool, carrying this. You can barely lift it,” Anne snapped. “Give it here.”

The child recoiled as if Anne slapped her, then begrudgingly obeyed.

Compared to the sword at her waist, the blend of ornamental, intimidating, and practical weapons she encountered during decades of jousts, and the lavish trimmings being on the royal payroll could afford, this weapon was mundane. Ordinary. It needed to be cleaned and sharpened, but even in pristine condition, it was absolutely unremarkable. Yet Anne held it close. 

“I’m ready,” Eliza pressed.

Anne chose to give the kind answer. She said, “No.”

The squire bristled. Instead of obeying Anne as she should, she lashed out.

“I’m ready. I do everything you ask, I do it well ,” Eliza elongated the word, as if to emphasize her proper grammar, “and I’m quick. You’ve already said I’m better than any other squire you’ve had. I’m tired of that old block of wood. I’m not afraid for this to be hard.”

Her tiny body puffed out, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. The squire stood unarmed and untrained against a larger, armed veteran. Anne wanted to commend her for her courage. Instead, Anne’s lip curled at her insolence. 

She said, “My decision is final, Eliza. This isn’t about you. My brother’s sword isn’t a possession I’d lightly give away—especially not to a child who thinks she’s entitled to it.”

The room was still. Anne loathed the girl for the stress she imparted upon her withering aunt. She longed to smack the child’s cheek as much as she longed to caress her aunt like a shield from the outside world, but neither would take back the things Eliza did. She should have left well alone. Anne could only prevent it from happening again in the future.

Aunt Anne piped, “Oh, I think the child can have it, my dear. Our spirits don’t stay in things when we pass on. If you hold on to my nightgown after I go, thinking my soul is trapped in it—gods! Can you think of all the trash you’d carry around?”

“There was a lot of trash in those sheds,” Eliza agreed.

Anne nearly laughed. Trash and treasure were the same to a child, who couldn’t know the reality of either. What lay in an old barn caked in dust once belonged to a person who lived, breathed, felt joy and pain, courage and fear, and held the fate of a family in their hands. It could never return them to life, but it triggered deep and powerful memories that Anne nearly forgot: the handle’s leather wrapping kept the shape of his hand. 

Even now, her fingers sunk in its grooves like the very first time he taught her how to hold a sword. When he left, his hand was a giant’s. Now they were nearly the same size. What might Sam think of her now? Her heart ached to know. It was a tragedy that she never would.

“It was Sam’s sword. He was the last person to wield it, he trained with it, the—the handle’s worn away by h-his hands…doesn’t that give it meaning?” Anne argued.

The sword was an artifact out of time. It played prominently in her memories. She had watched her brother train, welcomed him home while he wore it, and stashed it when he died. Anne’s stomach churned from the weight of the blade in her hands. Eliza should never have taken it. It wasn’t her right. The squire looted the weapon, as far as Anne was concerned.

Anne fought to keep the fury from her voice. She said, “Eliza, you are dismissed from my service.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are dismissed,” Anne repeated coldly. “You should never have taken this sword from its resting place. You can’t replace the dust it collected. You can’t take back the unpleasant memories and feelings it—it brings back. It wasn’t your right.”

“I don’t accept, ser,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “That’s the most idiotic reason I’ve ever heard.” 

“She’s a child , Anne,” Marian added from the doorway.

Sheathing the sword, Anne spat, “She’s insolent, rude, and sticks her nose where she doesn’t belong. She lacks awareness of others around her.”

“Sounds like a knight I know,” Marian mumbled.

Anne grit her teeth and brushed her sister’s words off. A gentle hand brushed the hair on the back of her neck. Anne remembered to breathe. Ann smiled gently. With only the curve of her lips, Ann buffered the outside world. Even surrounded by her shabby little family and the insubordinate child, it felt like the two of them were entirely alone.

Ann said, “My love, why don’t you take some time to think about Eliza’s request? She meant no harm.”

The softness of her voice was enough to convince Anne to do what she wanted. The weight of Sam’s sword in her hand urged her to push back.

“Intent doesn’t take away the harm she caused,” Anne said. 

“Give her time to apologize. You need each other, and I’d be loath to be without her assistance on the journey to my sister,” Ann reasoned. “And you’ll want to know, I’ve just decided I do want to be queen again, and I want to make haste to my sister, and rouse her armies in the family name to take the kingdom back. I’ll be laughed at for having a child in my kingsguard—but don’t think that’ll dissuade me from making good on my threat.”

Anne met her eyes and saw the seriousness in them. That was Ann: kind but determined, loving but firm. She had changed from the meek girl forced by fate to take her father’s throne to a queen who didn’t need a kingdom to fill her with confidence. The tenacity in Ann’s expression caught her off guard. When did that happen?

Anne had no choice. The woman utterly disarmed her.

“Yes,” Anne said in a deep breath out. “You’re right.”

***

After dinner, Ann tiptoed into their bedroom, cupping a flickering candle in her hand. She expected Anne to be asleep or in too foul a mood to speak to her, and eased the door open as quietly as she could. She crept into bed. Instead of pushing her away or meeting her eyes with loathing, Anne reached out to her. Her touch, as always, was gentle and kind. Ann giggled in surprise, and melted in to her lover. 

Anne sighed, “Oh, my love, I’ve missed you. I feel I’ve barely seen you today.”

Anne peppered hisses on her cheeks and neck. They were light, exhausted things, but made her feel beautiful all the same. She wanted Anne to feel that way, too. 

“Mmm, you look tired. Let me make you feel better?” Ann said earnestly. 

When Anne nodded, Ann clambered onto her lap. She took Anne’s face in her hands. Anne squeezed her eyes shut to ease a pounding headache. Flickering candlelight deepened Anne’s wrinkles, cutting her face into pieces between her eyes, across her cheeks, and in thin slices over her forehead. Her braid unraveled from all ends, tossing shadows over the walls so wild and fierce Ann’s shadow looked like it caressed a wild beast.

Ann brushed the hair away from her face. The light touch of her fingertip softened the lines above her eyes. She kissed the wrinkle between her knight’s eyebrows, rubbed her fingertips over the knots at her shoulders, and combed out her braid with a slow, careful reverence.

“You’re being so gentle,” Anne murmured.

“Is that okay?”

Anne’s grin answered for her. The knight replied, “I’m so rarely treated like a fragile thing. But, I suppose I need that tonight. It’s nice.”

Ser Anne Lister could never be called fragile, even in her most vulnerable moments. Yet Ann held her that way, and watched with awe at how the brush of her finger affected the knight. When she tucked a single thread of hair behind Anne’s ear, serenity washed over her face like rings radiating from a single drop of water in a pool. Anne’s eyes fluttered open. She balled Ann’s nightgown in her fist and tugged her into a kiss. 

They kissed, all hunger replaced with careful tenderness. The wet of Anne’s mouth and the pressure of her tongue sent Ann’s head buzzing. Anne brushed the length of her bottom lip and the tips of her teeth with her tongue, sealing the action with a reverent kiss on the corner of Ann’s mouth. Her hot breath filled Ann’s mouth. They gasped for air in turns. Ann pictured the exchange of their breath in the air like a flourishing figure eight: in through her nose, out through her mouth, in through her mouth, out through her nose, all while their greedy breaths kept time like a clock. 

Ann opened her eyes to look at the knight. She looked as serene as Ann felt. She pet Ann’s cheek with her hand and kissed Ann’s chin and jaw. The tip of her finger traced the O of Ann’s open mouth. 

The knight gripped Ann’s jaw, holding her steady while her tongue traced Ann’s bottom lip, followed the curve of her mouth, dipped to brush the inside of her cheek, and teased a long, aching groan from Ann’s throat by tickling her top lip with the tip of her tongue. Stars peppered the dark behind her eyelids, and a warm gush accompanied the ache between her legs. Anne’s thumb absently brushed her thighs, and she pulled away, laughing.

“You’re wet,” Anne observed. Her eyes gleamed.

Panicked, Ann said, “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. You’re tired, I can—”

“I’m not that tired,” Anne scoffed. Her smile widened and she added playfully, “But your concern for me is sweet. Maybe I’ll lay down this time, would that make you feel better? Less guilty?”

Ann blushed, astonished. “Um—”

Before she answered, Anne sank in the bed. Lying flat on the mattress, she looked up at Ann with a mischievous grin. Ann’s heart raced. She fumbled for the right words to express her confusion.

“Anne, I don’t—what’re you—do you want me to—?”

Anne traced the length of her clit with her finger. The lazy stroke sent a tremor through Ann’s body. She gasped.

Anne murmured, “I want to write a poem for you with my tongue again. Do you remember?”

“Oh, I, um,” Ann huffed, totally overwhelmed. “How could I forget?”

“Mmm, then trust me.”

Anne guided Ann to spread her legs over her face, commanding her with gentle touches and playful quips. Ann blushed at the sight of her thighs on either side of the knight’s head, her dark brown-and-gray hair fanning out over the white pillow and tumbling over her own creamy skin. At Anne’s direction, Ann lowered herself and gasped. Anne’s warm breath tickled her clit and shuddered through her body in a gust.

Anne laughed. “Is this okay? Comfortable?”

“I—um—yes,” Ann stuttered.

In this position, the ministrations of Anne’s mouth on the inside of her thighs and over her clit struck Ann with their newness. Ann struggled to keep her composure, aware of the tired woman beneath her. That was it—she was aware of Anne in a way she wasn’t before, when the pressure of Anne’s tongue transported her to a new place—or rather, no place at all, just hot wet heat in the dark, and a greedy, building thing within her. 

Anne’s hands were everything. When Ann found it impossible to steady herself, Anne held her by her hips like she weighed nothing at all. Her palms caressed each cheek of her ass and her long fingers brushed circles in her skin like the gods sized them for each other, their attention to detail absolutely exquisite.

She smoothed the length of Anne’s muscled arms, marveling at the strength of her grip on her thighs and waist. Ann wanted to be held like this forever, small, feminine, protected, and loved, her body—and the person inside it—worthy of being seen as beautiful and cherished. Every time Anne squeezed and gripped her, Ann became more and more malleable; she would do whatever the knight wanted.

Ann rolled her hips on Anne’s tongue at the pace of Anne’s gentle guidance, then increased as her own need overtook her. 

When Ann came, it wasn’t with the powerful force of a comet roaring across the sky, but with a gentle glimmer that flourished through her like unfurling wings. Anne was sweet. It spilled out of her in a long sigh that turned into a groan. She collapsed on top of her knight, tucking her face in Anne’s neck, breathing like air would never properly fill her lungs again.

“I liked that,” Anne said, a touch of laughter in her voice. “You always hide. Burying your face in a pillow, so embarrassed, so shy. Tonight, I got to see everything.”

“I never know what to do,” Ann explained, wondering if that was even an explanation at all. 

Ann’s body trembled still. She tried to summon the energy to ease herself off of Anne, but couldn’t. Anne didn’t seem to mind, and traced lazy, unpredictable shapes on her back with her fingertips. Ann’s racing mind slowed to focus on the touch, following the shapes with unusual attentiveness. Ann groaned again. 

“What?” Anne murmured.

“It feels like watching clouds in the sky,” Ann sighed. 

Every shape was a cloud. Indistinct. Ephemeral. Drawing Ann into a moment where nothing before and nothing after mattered. A place where she was free. Not safe, not protected, but removed entirely. A pocket of space where she wasn’t queen, or an exile, or even a human being. She wondered if Anne felt just as free.

When they were ready, they would face the outside world together.

Chapter Text

When they left the farm, it began to rain. Light drops darkened the dirt, turning it to a thick, sticky mud before Ann’s eyes. Leaves of grass caught droplets and channeled them to their roots below. The green of the fields and the green of the far-off trees were vibrant against the graying sky, striking away the gloomy atmosphere and replacing it with a dramatic and beautiful landscape.

Ann wished she could hold the image in her memory to paint later. Dark greens with a wash of teal. Then a soft, canary yellow blended into everything, like a glow of sunlight bursting from within. The gray would be the most difficult to blend; it might take her hours. A base of dark gray, then layers of warm grays, each more wrong than the last, standing too separate from the rest of the painting. Eventually, she would remember the quiet radiance of the trees, and the flowers, and the long grasses. She would add greens to the edges of the clouds in careful dabs of teal and yellow until her hand ached from holding the brush, and she would declare it finished.

That’s always how it was. Abandoned when she grew tired, and the lacquer made it final. Thinking about painting never satisfied her itch. She needed the brush in her hand and the creamy canvas before her. Sharing the view with Anne and Eliza wasn’t enough, she needed to translate the landscape into something others could feel. Radiance. Beauty. A thing she couldn’t explain—loneliness? Isolation?

Ann ached from her brushes and paints. The need for them filled her with the motivation to take back her kingdom.

Even Anne was more determined than before to be back in the thick of things—instead of wearing the commoner’s clothing she’d adopted in the past weeks, she chose to wear her armor, and over it, her thick wool cloak with Ann’s crest embroidered proudly on the back. She looked like the knight she was. Regal, always. Dashing. Her gloved hand caressed Ann’s cheek with the gentlest affection. Ann blushed like she was a girl again, and Anne’s kiss took her breath away. They were going home to her family. Ann was taking her kingdom back, with her knight at her side. Somehow, the world righted itself, and it hardly felt real.

The kiss oriented her. Anne’s mouth wet her lips, her face cold and a little wet from the misty air. Their tongues touched. Ann twirled the end of her braid in her finger, and a gentle bite on her bottom lip tore a squeak from her throat. Ann could have sworn it was only a small lilt, but the squire—more than a horse’s length behind them—pretended to gag dramatically over the side of her horse. Anne chuckled. Her warm breath brushed Ann’s chin. Gentle. Insistent. Real. 

The morning after her outburst, Anne forgave the squire for her transgression with nothing more than an affectionate smack on the stomach and a command to ready the horses. The sword was Eliza’s, but would stay wrapped until the squire could hold it properly. She was a gangly youth, growing fast. It wouldn’t be very long.

Aunt Anne, Marian, and she put their heads together for a gift for Eliza. Between the three of them and with Ann’s direction for the pattern, they made a matching cloak for the squire. Even without armor, she finally looked like a proper squire for a knight of Anne’s rank. When Ann presented it to her, the girl jammed it over her head in her excitement, nearly tearing the sleeve. In front of Anne, she puffed her chest proudly and wore an arrogant grin, but later that night Ann caught her staring at Marian’s foggy mirror with tears in her eyes.

Now, only a few weeks later, they continued their treacherous journey to Elizabeth’s kingdom. Unlike the well-travelled roads following the coast through port cities, overgrown roads made cutting through the kingdom arduous and slow. Road wardens assigned to each stretch had abandoned their posts altogether, allowing wild grasses to break through the cobbled paths and leaving massive trees blocking the roads after each storm. Anne and Eliza worked together to clear the fallen trees, swinging the axes with fierce determination and comfortable silence. 

The rain continued every day, sometimes heavy enough that it obstructed their vision, sometimes light enough to let the sun peek through the clouds like a glimmering jewel. They made camp away from rivers to avoid flash floods, but saw the destruction they caused to splintered wooden bridges and crumbling stone arches. They developed a routine for leading the horses across the wild rivers. Occasionally, when the rivers were too wide and fast, they were forced to change direction, adding days to their already long and winding route.

In the weeks on the road following Anne’s revoked dismissal, Eliza’s temperament changed. Around Anne, she was quiet, studious, and focused. She no longer shirked responsibilities when Anne wasn’t looking or distracted Anne from their lessons with whimsical jokes. She was a model student, and learned to temper the defiance that angered Anne.

Sometimes, however, after Anne went to sleep, the squire unwrapped the sword to practice her movements. Once, Ann heard her curse through the gentle patter of rain on the tent when she pulled a muscle. Ser Lister jerked awake at the disturbance, and Ann kissed her back to sleep, murmuring that it was nothing.

“I love you,” Anne murmured thickly, disoriented from sleep. “My queen. So sweet .”

Queen. The title twisted her gut in a way she couldn’t explain. Ann earned the title. She even believed she was good at the job. But the way Anne said it now, with such affection, made her think—

“I love you, too,” she whispered. With a pang of guilt, she added, “My darling knight.”

Moonlight seeped through the thin walls of the tent, bathing Anne’s face in feathery yellow. Ann knew every expression that face could make, from charming arrogance to deep melancholy. She couldn’t imagine a world without her, or a world where Anne was a stranger to her again. Anne could never be just a knight to her. She didn’t want to hide the yellowing page of a secret poem or steal kisses behind closed doors. Ann wanted Anne for her and for the kingdom itself; she was more than Ann’s perfect match, she was a strong, intelligent, brave, and trustworthy person with their people’s best interests at heart. Ann learned that was more important than almost anything else.

With a gentle rustle of the blankets, Anne gathered her in her strong arms. Her fingertips traced slow, lazy circles over the dimple on Ann’s shoulder. 

“Mmm,” Anne hummed. “Can’t wait to call you my wife.”

Wife. Gods, that they belonged to two different worlds was hardly apparent until Anne mentioned marriage. When Ann released her from her vows, she assumed they would recede into the commonwealth, and they would be free to experience the hardships and freedoms that kind of life offered. Ann thought they might marry for love, without consequence. Now that she was going to be queen again, that changed. Anne was right for her kingdom, but symbolism and the blessing of the divines was just as important. Ignoring them rendered them meaningless. 

Murmuring sweet nothings in the dark of night and through the fog of sleep was hardly the appropriate time to have that conversation, though. Ann traced the plane of Anne’s cheek with a finger. Her strong jaw. Her soft skin. Wrinkles spreading from the corners of her eyes like roots from a tree. Anne was utterly perfect. It was cruel for fate to try to take this from her.

***

The night the dog-beast earned his name was one Ann would remember forever.

The beast grew from a small pup that tucked his nose in the crook of Ann’s elbow to a powerful animal the size of a wolf in a matter of months. Despite being large enough for the squire to ride—not that he let her—he had yet to grow into his large, gangly paws and pointed ears. To Eliza’s annoyance, Ann affectionately referred to him as “that tiny thing.” (“He is not tiny, your majesty!”) However, he answered to the phrase, licking Ann’s chin affectionately each time she cooed for him.

The pup lay curled outside their tent. Ann begged Anne in every way she could conceive for the dog to cuddle with them instead. She promised Anne kisses, suggested sexual acts that would make even a deviant blush, and offered her lavish titles that no commoner had held before. Ann batted her eyelashes, tickled Anne’s earlobe with the tip of her tongue, and complimented every curve of muscle and sliver of flesh on her body to no avail. Each time, Anne wrinkled her nose and said, “No. He smells.”

Ann didn’t argue with that. He was also a noisy thing. His snoring rivalled the squire’s, and the slurp of his tongue when he cleaned between his toes grated her ears, even through the gentle patter of rain and singing crickets. 

“Ugh,” Anne groaned, throwing the blanket over her head. “It’s no wonder we haven’t seen them before. Or that his mother died. He’s so loud . Whatever hunts them could be the laziest animal in the world.”

Ann clicked her tongue and smacked Anne’s shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“That’s unkind,” Ann reprimanded. “It’s a good thing he’s comfortable enough to sleep! When I was younger, we had a cat—”

“Oh, I remember him,” Anne said bitterly.

Ann continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “—who always slept with one eye open, because between the knights and the guards and my brother, he never knew when he was about to be kicked or prodded or have something else terrible happen to him. And I will not let this happen to this poor thing.”

Anne grunted. Ann chose to interpret it as an “okay.” The knight drifted off to sleep, her breaths deep and slow, and her grip on Ann’s hand relaxed. 

However Ann turned, no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut, and regardless of how many dozens of sheep she counted, sleep evaded her. If they were at the castle, Ann would have accepted her restlessness and painted a canvas by candlelight. The flickering flames were frustrating to paint by, as the ribbed brushstrokes caught the dancing light, and the orange flames turned brilliant hues into various shades of gray. It wouldn’t be satisfying, but it would be an outlet for her energy. Eventually, she would find sleep in the study chair. Here, in the wilderness, with what felt like the entire world surrounding them, there was nowhere to go.

Ann rotated to face Anne, careful to keep the knight’s free arm draped over her waist. She curled one hand at Anne’s chest while her fingertip traced the thick, dark lines of her eyebrows. Painting portraits was never her passion, but all she wanted to do was capture Anne’s wild eyebrows and her pensive expression as she dreamed. Ann brushed Anne’s jaw with her lips, then the languid pulse on her throat, and tucked her face in the crook of her neck, finally dozing off.

Outside the tent, a twig snapped, and a low, guttural growl cut through the ambient noise. Ann squeaked in surprise, then crept forward with a gentle flutter of fabric. Her movement frightened the pup, whose growl dipped to a low whine and back again. She undid the ties slowly, peeking through the flap of the tent, past the moonlit clearing and into the dark trees.

Every hair on the pup’s body stood on end, and his leathery wings spread wide, covering both ends of the clearing. He looked larger than he was. The white light caught his bared teeth, glinting like a hundred large, curved daggers. He was as terrifying as the dragons in the stories. His puffed, tense posture reminded Ann that he wasn’t a bleary-eyed domestic pup, but a beast, as wild and deadly as anything lurking beyond her sight. 

And he was afraid. That was too terrifying to dwell on.

The horses shuffled restlessly, tugging and nipping at the ropes binding them to the tree. Eliza’s bed was empty, and the sword’s wrappings lay discarded on the dirt. Ann’s heart sank, fearing the worst.

“Eliza! Where are you?” she hissed. The words barely left her lips in a whisper, yet they were loud against the sudden silence in the trees surrounding them.

“I’m here,” she called from somewhere in the trees. Branches snapped under her boots. “Trying to find what it is he’s seeing. But so far there’s nothing, your majesty.”

Ann’s insides screamed from the child’s stupid bravery. She never wanted to scold anyone more in her life. “Get back here!” and “always wake Ser Lister first!” were whisked from her lips by a forlorn yowl beside her. The noise grated her ears like a baby’s cry.

When Ann turned to the pup, his growl bubbled and deepened. Ann followed his gaze upward to the trees above them, where shadows muddled the shapes of the leaves and branches. Ann squinted. Through the shimmering leaves, she caught movement on a thick branch dipping directly above the tent. Her heart jumped in her throat.

“Anne!” she tried to say, but all that came out was a choked breath.

The shape coiled and tightened around the branch. Ann stood, frozen in fright, while the pup trembled beside her. Finally, it slunk into view, moonlight catching on the film of the snake’s eyes like two perfect white buttons. It meditated her with alien stillness while the rest of its massive body dipped from the branch and coiled onto the black earth below. The pup edged away from them, his tail between his legs.

Ann knew, with absolute certainty, that she was about to die. Fear stirred her gut, not for herself and her own life, but for Anne and Eliza, who were still unaware of the threat. Who, if they lived, would blame themselves for Ann’s death for the rest of their lives. Ann begged herself to scream, for them , but found she couldn’t even swallow the breath to fuel it. There was only the snake, pondering her with dull, filmy eyes, holding her captive in a paralysis as though it had already bitten her.

Air hummed in the stillness. Ann’s own breathing rang in her ears. Each second dragged on, and she only wondered which was the moment of her death. She closed her eyes, and chose to think only of the loving knight sleeping peacefully a few yards away. The smell of her long brown-and-gray hair. The way Ann felt her smile when they kissed. How regal she looked the day of the tourney, already entirely hers. Ann longed to live in those moments forever, but knew that death was the curse of a mortal life, and supposed hers was very good. Perfect, even, all things considered. Because of Anne.

At the edge of the wood, a branch cracked. Ann opened her eyes. Eliza stepped into view, her sword held aloft,  staring wide-eyed at the scene before her. The snake’s head swiveled at the sound, and then a powerful snarl tore the air behind her as the pup lunged toward the creature and took its neck between his jaws. 

“Ser Lister!” Eliza shrieked. “Wake up!”

The snake’s massive body curled and thrusted, trying to break free. It hissed terribly while it thrashed, its jaws unhinged, revealing massive, fleshy fangs oozing venom in thick pearls. The pup’s teeth sank in its flesh as he fought to keep his grip. Dark blood peppered the ground beneath them.

Anne burst out of the tent. She immediately positioned herself between Anne and the snake, her sword held aloft.

“Were you bitten?” Anne said.

Ann still couldn’t speak. She shook her head.

Anne turned her focus to the pup and the snake as they stumbled together. She bade the squire away from the fight with a fierce command, and Eliza obeyed, stepping back under the cover of the trees. Anne waited, absolutely still, for the perfect moment to strike. Seconds felt like hours, and a minute felt like an eternity, until Anne saw an opening that wouldn’t injure the pup and slashed clean through the snake, which died with a long and agonized hiss.

The pup stared at the corpse as though the creature were still alive. He prodded the tail with his nose, then jumped back, waiting. Ann wanted to tease him for his silliness, but found herself waiting with him. Her hands had started to shake.

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” Anne demanded. 

“I—I d-don’t know what happened,” Ann said. She had been so close to death. “I just froze. I tried to move, but couldn’t. I tried to speak, to yell, but my mouth wouldn’t move.”

Anne followed her gaze to the pup, who inched closer to the snake again, then let out a frustrated whine. Eliza emerged from the forest to investigate the body with him. She tapped her chin with a finger, then kicked the severed head away from them as hard as she could. Her boot hit it with a wet thunk, and it rolled across the clearing. It landed upside down, its massive tongue lolling out. 

“See, dog,” Eliza addressed him matter-of-factly, “it’s dead.”

The pup watched the head roll with wide eyes. His ears faced forward like a rabbit’s, looking from the squire to the head and back again. Eliza ran to where the head was, and he followed cautiously, whining when she approached the head again with no regard for the danger it posed. Eliza kicked it a second time. The pup barked playfully, finally understanding it as a game, and raced Eliza back and forth.

Ann stifled a giggle. She said, “He’s so stupid.”

“He saved your life,” Anne said.

“I thought he was afraid of snakes,” Eliza said, out of breath. 

The pup rubbed against Ann’s leg, panting. Ann scratched behind his ears, and he leaned into the touch. She cooed, “You’re a brave little thing. Thank you.”

“You should name him Snake Slayer,” Eliza suggested. “Like the knights that make titles for themselves, and everyone knows to fear them. ‘Eliza, Dragon Slayer’ has a nice ring to it. Everywhere he goes, it would follow him.”

“I’ve slayed a dragon, and I didn’t give myself the title,” Anne reminded her. “Achievements speak for themselves.”

“Well I would have. I will ,” Eliza sniffed. “My name will be so long that in a tourney I’ll kill my opponent before they’ve finished announcing it.”

“We do not kill our opponents in tournaments,” Anne said, her voice rising with panic.

Eliza deflated. “We...don’t?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Then what’s the point of—”

“I suppose it’s time to decide on a name. He’s earned it,” Ann interrupted. Anne shot her a grateful smile. She ran her fingers through the pup’s fur. “So tiny and good.” She smiled when the knight and her squire groaned in unison. Petting his nose with a finger, Ann declared, “That’s your name. Tiny. I’ve decreed it.”

Anne pitched her nose, and her squire covered her face with both hands. 

“I’m not calling him that,” Eliza said.

“He’s a beast, Ann. He just saved your life. He needs some dignity,” Anne agreed.

Ann gasped, then added in a whisper, “ Ser Tiny.”

Anne said nothing, but Ann didn’t miss her sharp, disappointed sigh. For a moment, Ann wondered if she thought the name an insult to her station. As soon as the squire spoke, Ann realized that couldn’t be the case, or Anne would quiet the child to have a more serious, carefully-worded discussion on the issue. Instead, Anne listened to Eliza’s protests with a growing smile on her lips. 

“He can’t even hold a sword! And he’s younger than me,” Eliza argued, outraged. 

“Dogs age differently. He’s as large as an adult dog now—there’s a chance he won’t grow any larger,” Ann reminded her. Not a word of what she said may have been true. 

“I just—ugh!—I’m sorry for being so rude, your majesty, I just can’t believe a dog was knighted before me . It’s, I don’t know, I just—I would have killed it, if I saw it first,” she sputtered. 

The squire’s outrage was real. Ann squeezed her hand and smiled while she gathered the words to explain the situation to her. Eliza flushed at the touch, and Ann realized all she wanted was validation.

“There’s a process for knighthood. It’s hard, and annoying, and difficult to be patient for. But compared to all the things we’ve already been through together, it’ll be a piece of cake for you. Ser Lister has never had a squire for this long. She’s the most decorated knight in the kingdom—you’re learning from the best. It’ll happen soon enough,” she said gently. “That doesn’t help though, does it?”

The child looked down at her feet. Ann couldn’t tell if she was bashful or ashamed. 

“No. I don’t want to wait,” she said. 

Patience was a skill that took years to learn. Ann remembered well enough. It wasn’t fair to ask a child, with far less experience in the world and far less time to master it, simply to wait. Ann couldn’t give her anything, except to let her know she understood. 

“There was a brief moment, when I was a child, that I was jealous that my brother would become the future king. I was jealous of the time he spent with my father. I was jealous of the influence he would have over the kingdom. Why was he worthy, and not me?”

“Luck. Maybe he was your father’s favorite,” Eliza guessed bitterly.

Ann smiled. “Maybe. My mother told me, ‘be patient. You’ll find your role.’ But I didn’t want to wait. I wanted my father to see those things in me, too. Sometimes, I think, if I’d used that impatient energy to train myself for the role I’d wanted—well, maybe things would be different.”

Ann didn’t mean to tap into her well of memories. She hadn’t intended to be self-reflective. She swallowed the rest of her thoughts on the subject, and hoped Eliza was too preoccupied with her own struggles to notice. 

Eliza did, of course. She was far too similar to Anne that way. 

“What do you mean?” Eliza said.

“I mean—no matter how good of a queen I’ve become, maybe I’d be even better. That’s how I know you’ll be a good knight,” she said quickly, turning the focus of the conversation back to the squire. 

“Of course I will be,” Eliza said, with not a touch of self-awareness or shame for her arrogance.

And why should she be ashamed? Ann thought. It was true. 

Until this moment, Anne played with Ser Tiny, politely ignoring their conversation. Eliza’s declaration tore a laugh from her lips. She didn’t bother to hide it, clapped the squire on the shoulder, and said, “Keep talking like that, and the men that fancy themselves your peers won’t ever be a problem for you. Trust me.”

Anne laughed, and Ann was alive to hear it. She realized what death nearly stole from her. The moment struck her like a bolt of lightning in her chest, sucking her breath away. More than she longed to paint, and stronger than the pull to rule her kingdom once more, was Anne. Nothing was worthwhile if it wasn’t with her, yet the deadly game of the courts and the unyielding eye of the gods weighed down her heart.

Choosing love over her kingdom had a price, and her kingdom over her love an unbearable consequence. Anne’s words from long ago returned to her, a phrase that encapsulated the futility of her choice: stories like ours never end well . 

Having both was something Ann desperately needed. Without Anne and her kingdom, she would never feel whole. Perhaps that was her curse.

Chapter Text

After months on the road, the charm of adventure wore off. Each forest and valley looked similar to the last. Road wardens continued to abandon their posts, and the trails became more deserted and overgrown. Villages that could have provided news and fresh supplies closed themselves off to travelers as the roads grew unsafe. 

Where before fallen trees, high rivers, flash floods, and wild beasts were their only threats, the possibility of encountering bandits hung over their heads. Anne and Ser Tiny could fend most off with ease, but they rarely slept soundly. How Anne stayed chipper even with gray rings under her eyes bewildered and inspired Ann. It was hard to emulate her when all she wanted to do was scream in frustration. 

Anne travelled these roads so many times throughout her life. Ann wished she could see the importance each stone carried for her lover, or the bank of memories sewn into each path. But she couldn’t. Ann wasn’t built for riding for hours every day. Her thighs chafed against the leather saddle, sent her stumbling with shock after she dismounted, and her back and legs ached through the night. Even more, grime and dirt caked her clothes. 

One night, Anne began to ease off her clothes, and Ann snapped at her. She regretted it immediately.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just—not tonight. I feel terrible. Everything hurts.”

Anne pressed gentle kisses into her hair. The tender touch filled her with the awareness of Anne’s body flush against hers, the scent of sweat and leather from her armor in a heap beside them, and the quiet hum in her throat. Ann closed her eyes. Laying like this, she didn’t care if she ever fell asleep.

“What would make you feel better? I can do anything you want. It doesn’t have to be sex, I could brush your hair, rub your back, mmm, recite a poem,” she said, biting back laughter. “I could shower you with compliments. Or we could take another bath in the river.”

“That was so cold,” Ann said, shoving her playfully. “My legs hurt from riding. I’m too exhausted to do anything but lay down and complain.”

Anne rubbed her hands together. She said, “I learned a thing or two about making aches and pains go away when I trained as a soldier. Our bodies had to adjust to constant movement—I thought I would be bedridden forever after the fourth day. Let my hands work their magic, darling.”

Ann blushed, but teased, “Oh? I can’t believe all those girls in the army let you touch them. Well, maybe I can.”

“Would you believe me if I told you they begged for it?”

“Mmm, that remains to be seen,” Ann said, sinking down in the blankets and curling her legs in Anne’s lap. “Or—er, felt.”

“Tell me where,” Anne said, grinning.

To Ann’s surprise, Anne’s strong hands were exactly what she needed to knead out the aches and pains in her body. Her hands smoothed over her legs and back in practiced strokes, identifying her knotted muscles with ease and working them until she was numb with relaxation. The playful kisses and nips on her neck and shoulders didn’t hurt, either.

That night, for the first time in weeks, Ann fell asleep drooling. It became their nightly routine. The attention didn’t extinguish her bitterness, but it made the journey less arduous. She began—cautiously—to look forward to seeing her family.

Her admission to Anne weeks earlier was a silly thing, but it was true: Ann longed to wear dresses again. She missed the lazy joy of picking colors, and the symbolism steeped in choosing the accompanying jewelry. She missed the long nights spent at her desk, hands in her hair while she stared at missives from the dukes, both trivial and essential. Ann wasn’t a soldier or a knight. And that was alright.

One of Ann’s favorite pastimes on horseback was watching Ser Tiny hunt. The dog-beast shadowed an eagle in the air above them, flying so high he looked as small as his prey. Ann squinted to look up at him, shielding her eyes from stray drops of rain with an arm. She gasped sharply when he plummeted toward the bird, his wings tucked close to his body and nose pointed forward, and with a strangled squawk snatched it between his teeth in a burst of feathers. He landed happily beside them—the bird still twitching in his mouth—and offered his dinner to Ann by placing it in front of her on the saddle.

Ann grimaced, fighting the urge to throw the dead thing away from her as quickly as possible. But she hated to hurt his feelings. Eliza giggled behind her.

“Um, no thanks. You can have it,” she said, offering the bird back to him with a gesture. 

Ann tried to ignore the disgusting noises he made while he ate. He snapped bones, crunched cartilage, and ripped and tugged at the meat with the ferocity of a beast that didn’t know when it would get its next meal. Blood wet and darkened the fur on his face. Ann rolled her eyes, knowing she would have to pick feathers out from between his teeth later that evening.

On the road, Ser Tiny preferred to run through the fields beside them instead of taking flight. He spread his wings only once or twice a day to hunt. After his meal, he leaped and burst through the tall yellow grasses like a game, occasionally emerging with a squirming mouse between his jaws or grass tangled in his wings.

 “He only flies to hunt,” Ann observed, watching him. “But never for fun. I wonder why. Do you think he’s scared, Anne?”

Anne watched him with interest, jotting down her observations in notes or drawings every now and then. Ann didn’t know how she kept a steady hand on the back of a horse. 

“It makes sense. They’re forest-dwellers, after all. They must feel safer moving through the branches,” Anne observed, as if the few books she read on raptors made her an expert. 

Ann suppressed a giggle. She could watch her lover recall quotes and passages from books she’d read years ago forever. When she did, her eyes focused on something far-off. Her finger tapped her bottom lip. The knight was somewhere else, reading a book that wasn’t in her hands, yet quoting the passage as though it was right in front of her. Ann could barely do it with the prayers she read every day as a child.

“Do you miss reading?” Ann called out to her lover through the rain. Though it was light, it filled the air and muted everything like white noise.

“Hmm?” Anne replied, as if jolted from a dream.

The long journey often left them to their thoughts. Ann mostly worried about the future, turning anxieties of returning to political life over and over in her head. She never resolved her fears. More often, thinking worsened them, gripping her heart like a cold, desperate hand. Her kingdom stepped deeper into turmoil while the reunion with her family grew more uncertain and ever closer.

“The royal library,” Ann clarified. “Do you miss it? You never—never got to read everything you wanted.”

“Of course. I think about it all the time. All the poetry I left unattended in my room, where anyone could dirty the sacred, ancient texts with their grubby and unworthy hands,” Anne said, escalating from solemnity to bitterness. “It not as important as this, obviously. I’m not remorseful. But yes, I do miss it.”

They fell silent again, drifting off into their own worlds. Ann spent so much of the morning swirling in her own anxiety that now she was numb. Her brain couldn’t distract itself with anything. She tried to imagine what she would say to her sister, to explain how everything went so wrong, or what she could do to counteract the drama certainly spun by her aunt—but there was nothing. The only sound in her head was a ringing silence that reminded her of the immediacy of her own breathing and the cold drops of rain gathering in the crevices of her gloved fingers. 

“Ann, will you marry me?” Anne said suddenly.

“I—what?”

The question didn’t catch her off guard as much as stuck a lead weight in her stomach and pulled down, down, down. Her brain didn’t light up with a thousand thoughts as it usually did, but her body reacted to the sudden stress terribly. Blood rushed to her head, warming her cheeks and ears.

Anne explained, “The last time we had the conversation, you said you needed time. But we never returned to it. I wonder if we should now, before we see your family again. We should know what we’re doing. It’ll likely be a vital conversation with them, anyway, considering—who you are. But this is about us. I don’t want your family to pressure you because they don’t like me.”

Anne was right, of course. Her family would never approve of their affair, much less a marriage. Aunt Ann probably spread the story of their kiss to all corners of both kingdoms—and she was not a kind narrator. Ann almost evaporated from horror at the thought of all the terrible things her aunt must have spread. Any notion of continuing their relationship would be shut down immediately. 

Without looking at Anne, she answered, “I want to, Anne. But what I want won’t matter to them. Or the kingdom. Marriages are a political tool—it’s not the same for us as it is for commoners.”

“When you become a knight, does that make you royal?” Eliza interrupted eagerly.

“No,” Anne answered sharply, dismissing her. 

Ann glared at the knight, then explained, “Most knights are already royal. Only kingsguard give up previous titles to claim a new one. And it’s an honor, rather than a title—royalty implies noble birth. It implies a legacy, carried on through blood. Knighthood doesn’t grant these things.”

“So, when Ser Lister marries you, that makes her…?”

Ann bit her lips. She had no idea. 

“Untraditional,” she finally answered. “No king or queen has ever married a commoner before. Our marriages aren’t for love. It would be—” 

Her cousin’s voice filled in the blank for her. Impossible. Foolish. Shameful. Something that undid centuries of strategic matchmaking. An insult to the gods themselves.

“Untraditional,” Ann finished lamely.

“As usual, for me,” Anne joked. 

It made sense that Anne couldn’t grasp the impossibility of what she was asking. She lived in Ann’s world for most of her life, yet kingsguard weren’t beholden to the same ideology. The role of a kingsguard to a monarch was steeped in romantic symbolism—honor, unwavering loyalty, fierce protection. Political marriage, however, was an ugly reality. Unlike Anne, she didn’t get to choose.

Ann hated the bite in her tone when she said, “I don’t know, Anne. I want to say yes, but I’m not sure it’s…possible.”

“When you see yourself on the throne again, where am I?”

Panic flared in her chest. Ann didn’t know what her kingdom would look like when she returned to her throne, or how General Rawson rebuilt the castle he nearly destroyed. She couldn’t picture the contents of her own room, whether her family’s belongings went up in flames, or if the Royal Library itself was still intact. Anne was asking her to imagine the unimaginable.

“I—I don’t—”

Frustrated, Anne interrupted, “No, seriously, Ann, where am I? In kingsguard armor behind you, my oaths re-sworn? Am I beside you, your uncrowned wife, without a tangible role in the kingdom? Or am I gone—” Anne snapped her fingers, “—as though I never existed? I need you to understand how uncertain I feel, how isolated, when you tell me that you don’t know.”

“I—yes. I see you beside me. As my wife,” Ann said. 

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either. It was only what she desperately wanted. It was a dream, not something she knew how to make real. She wished she could be as confident as Anne. If Anne were queen in her place, she could make it happen. Anne had willpower stronger than any weapon. 

“Well. Then that’s that,” Anne said, smiling warmly, as if the myriad of problems that decision created wouldn’t swallow everything whole. She added, “We’ll find the right time to tell them. I know we have to be delicate.”

For the first time since General Rawson stole her throne, Ann felt the eyes of the gods upon her. She imagined them, each larger than any mountain, sitting in a circle above the world and peering down. Their gaze was as disconcerting as being watched from dark thickets, but not as sinister. It wasn’t the hammer of power Anne described when she took her oaths, nor the burst of radiance from within that Ann felt during her coronation. It was so soft, she hardly felt it.

Ann held her breath, as though celestial beings could be frightened away if she moved.

“Yes,” she said softly. “We’ll have to tell them at the right time. In the right way. O-or they might—might try something. I don’t know. Withhold the army, or get in our heads—something.”

“I agree. Eliza—did you hear all that?” Anne called.

“Yes, ser.” 

“It’s very important that you understand how dire it is that you say nothing. If you ever want to become a knight, especially of the kingsguard, you may be called upon to overhear sensitive information and say nothing about it. Just like this. This is a test of your honor,” Anne said sternly.

 “If a word leaves my lips, I accept the consequence. Death,” Eliza replied gravely.

Ann smiled to herself. The squire drank in everything Anne said like her words were sacred, then spun it into a joke in the same breath. Anne didn’t know whether to be satisfied or insulted, and the struggle showed plainly on her face.

Anne pinched her nose. She said, “You won’t die.”

“But I’d want you to kill me,” Eliza insisted. 

While the knight and her squire bickered, the gods turned their gaze away from Ann. A weight she didn’t know was there suddenly lifted from her shoulders. The lightness disoriented her, but she otherwise felt the same. The gods didn’t imbue her with purpose as they had before, but instead turned to her, watched her, and left as quickly as they came, as though Ann simply caught their attention. 

Ann thought of them before as omnipresent, all-seeing beings. Now she wondered if their attention caught and snagged on mortals like water shapes rocks in a stream. She was once their anointed vessel. Had she sparked their interest, then pushed them away again? She shivered, shaking the remnants of that feeling away. No amount of pondering would give her an answer.

Chapter Text

Ann was twenty the last time she visited Elizabeth’s new home. The Sutherland palace evoked those from childhood stories: elegant, mystical kingdoms far from her own, swirling with beauty and magic, their stones soaked with history, and the robust court crawling with potential heroes and heroines. Where Ann’s castle stank of the surrounding lakes and its grounds were dirty and gloomy with sticky mud, the Sutherland’s castle was clean and beautiful, high enough in the mountains to touch the clouds. 

When they approached the gates, a light snowfall caught the sunlight and glimmered in the air like a million diamonds. Even now, Ann’s breath caught in her throat at the sight.

Surrounded on all sides by snowy mountains, the castle was well-protected from both intruders and natural disasters. Ten years ago, when Elizabeth first married the prince, a massive avalanche destroyed the surrounding landscape. It bent forests, crushed the village below, and buried the stables under feet of snow and debris. Yet, the castle stood. Ann remembered tears filling her eyes when she read the letter narrating the event from her sister, praying thanks to the gods for strengthening the stones of the fortress to keep her safe. 

Within the gates, anxiety swirled in her stomach and buzzed in her brain like static. Elizabeth was so close. Reality came back to Ann like a swift punch in the gut. Her kingdom was gone. Her family knew about Anne, at least in come capacity. She accepted Anne’s proposal, but didn’t know if she could pay the cost. Most ominous of all, the gods had their holy gaze upon her again.

Where Ann’s castle— home , she thought wistfully—was warm and inviting, the chill from outside seeped and hovered in the air here. Even empty rooms had a lit fireplace, and the floors around them blackened from smoke. They would have been impossible for the servants to keep clean for a few months at a time, let alone year-round.

“I’m so cold, and it isn’t even supposed to be winter,” Eliza grumbled to herself. “Aren’t royalty supposed to be rich? Did someone forget to tell them beaches exist?”

Anne was too preoccupied with Ann to scold her. Holding Anne’s hand in such a public space felt stranger than Ann expected. She loved it, of course. Her soul felt brighter tethered to Anne this way. However, she struggled with the best course of action for announcing their betrothal to her family and the Sutherlands. Despite her affair with Anne, both parties no doubt saw her unwed status as a tremendous advantage. 

When more joined their entourage, Ann became self-conscious, and her grip slackened. She needed to tell her sister, in an official way, not through hand-holding and casual kisses. It would be an insult to their hospitality and allyship. By the time the rest of Ann’s kingsguard met them, only their pinky fingers remained entwined.

“Captain Washington,” Anne greeted, grinning. She offered her free hand, and he shook it, beaming. “Not as easy as it looks, is it?”

Only months had passed, but new grays speckled Ser Washington’s beard. Ann flashed him her warmest smile. He bowed deeply to her before he replied.

“I haven’t even had a queen to protect!” he said, laughing. “It was a hard journey for us. You were smart to wait; the last leg is terrible in the spring. We could have used your experience as a soldier for guidance, but we all managed to make it in one piece. The flooding was unbelievable.”

“Now you know to fill my spot with a former soldier,” Anne said, winking. “We’ll find the right fit.”

“Preferably someone very old,” Eliza added beside her.

“Ser, did my family make it here alright? With such a treacherous journey, I was worried…” Ann started, trailing off.

Ann was worried for the health of her family, there was no doubt. But a small piece of her needed to know what they’d said about her and Anne, especially to the Sutherlands. Guilt wormed its way into her gut. She should be concerned for their health, and nothing else. The resentment she harbored would do more harm than good.

Ser Washington nodded and said, “It was certainly rough, your majesty. Your aunt has been exhausted since, but every doctor that’s seen her says her health is perfectly fine. She’s just tired.”

The relief she felt was fleeting. Anxiety quickly replaced it.

“Thank you,” Ann said. I’m glad , she should have finished. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

The throne room was strategically situated at the far end of the castle so guests might behold the elegance of the structure before meeting the monarchs that lived here. Where most castles were dark and gloomy, sunlight spilled in from massive stained glass windows, throwing colorful light over the walls. Servants gave extra care to the hallway so the stones never blackened from the candlelight. After hundreds of years, this section of the castle looked as if it were recently built. 

Ann turned to Anne with a small smile, expecting her to excitement to flourish, studying the designs of the glass or wondering at the age of the stones. Instead, Anne stared passively forward. When she noticed Ann looking, she smiled warmly and kissed her hair.

“Have you ever been here, Anne?” Ann whispered.

“A few times. I know this family well enough to know that this godforsaken hallway they make every visitor walk down—despite having a shorter route to the throne room, mind you—is perfectly symbolic of their behavior. Anything nasty, wipe it away. It’s all posturing,” Anne said, her lip curling. “I’m still a bit sensitive to that behavior, you know.”

Thinking of Duke Ainsworth still churned Ann’s stomach. Her horrible dreams, the twisted memories of her parents, and the disorientation of not knowing dreams from reality still woke her in cold sweats in the night. Even when they were younger, Ann knew he was an awful person, but the signs Anne’s trained eye saw weren’t clear to her yet. Ann chose to trust Anne more than her own gut. 

“I think it’s beautiful,” Ann said.

If Anne could read her mind, she would know that Ann meant that as gratitude for looking out for her. Instead, she sounded stupid, like despite everything Anne said she remained awed at its splendor and extravagance. But she didn’t. She wasn’t. Ann could have cursed herself a thousand times over. 

“Well. Hire more servants to toil over one long hallway in particular, and you will have achieved the same effect,” Anne said dryly.

“No—I meant, thank you, Anne,” she said. “You always make me think deeper. When I see it, I think, ‘it’s beautiful.’ But you remind me to ask why. You protect me. Thank you.”

“You should be careful around them, Ann. I know you love your sister, and she loves you, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re on enemy territory,” Anne said grimly. She looked distrustfully over her shoulder. “I don’t know the castle. I don’t know the allegiance of the servants. We have no allies here, except your own kingsguard and maybe your sister. You need to be careful.”

Ann smiled gently. There was nothing she could do to put Anne at ease, yet the knight relaxed when Ann placed her hand on her armored chest. Ann traced the engraved sigil of her own house, and Anne watched, her grim expression softening. She longed to kiss away the rest of the anxiety wrinkling Anne’s face, but the uncertainty of who might be watching stopped her. 

“We’ll be all right,” Ann whispered.

How strange, to be on the other side of fierce anxiety. Her brave, dashing, powerful knight spun in circles of uncertainty and fear, and Ann had the privilege of being her light in the dark. From experience, she knew that a firm touch often meant more than a word or a false promise; Ann’s grip on her arm might be an anchor, or a gentle reminder of an undeniable truth: I’m with you. We’re in this together . 

Ann was nervous too, of course—but a proper amount, and the knowledge of what she could control and what she couldn’t steadied her. The sensation was bizarre. She wished she could summon it at will.

When they finally reached the throne room, two of the Sutherlands’ kingsguard threw open the massive iron doors. The skeleton of a massive dragon hung suspended from the ceiling, its wings spread from wall to wall and bony jaw wide open in a cry or spitting flames. Ann knew it was there, and yet every time she saw it, it stunned her anew. She’d never seen a dragon in real life, only in fantastical paintings and scientific drawings, but the measurements in texts did nothing to convey the sheer scale of the beast.

“This is huge!” Eliza said, captivated by the mass of bones above them. “A dragon, right? When do I get to kill one of these?”

“Smaller than the one I killed with only ten men,” Anne muttered tartly beside her. “A coward slayed this pest, and their knighthood should be revoked.”

Ann smacked her lightly on the arm. “Bite your tongue on that, for my sake. King Sutherland—Elizabeth’s father-in-law, I’ll remind you—slayed this,” she scolded.

“I said what I said,” Anne huffed.

Six figures—the king, queen, Elizabeth, George, and two of his brothers whose names she couldn’t remember—sat in their respective thrones to greet them. The king was old and wizened, so frail that his clothes were more like wrappings holding him together. His health had deteriorated substantially since Ann was last here, and she wondered why Anne was so afraid of him.

A mosaic of clear glass shards bristled up the wall behind the thrones, showcasing the imposing mountains around the castle and in the horizon. They stepped off into the sky, fading from bright white to blue. The remainder of her family stood to the side, bowing or curtseying respectfully. 

After a nod from her husband, Elizabeth stood from her chair and dashed to meet them. She took Ann in a hug and kissed her cheek. Addressing each of the knights in turn, her sister reached Anne last and grinned when Anne offered her hand. Anxiety returned to Ann with a light fluttering in her stomach. Her sister’s expression held such affection that Ann wondered if she somehow already knew of their engagement. And if she did, why wasn’t she upset?

“Ser Lister,” Elizabeth greeted. Ignoring Anne’s outstretched hand, she took her in an embrace. “Thank you for keeping my sister safe. I had many sleepless nights, but knowing she was under your protection brought me more peace than anything else.”

But how much do you know ! Ann thought furiously. She held on to every word her sister spoke for double meaning, an edge, a hint, anything that would reveal the cruel gossip her aunt or the Priestleys let slip about their affair. Fear for Anne gripped her, but also for her kingdom and for herself. Elizabeth, though kind and empathetic, was as traditional as their parents. She would no doubt have a strong opinion on the matter of marriage to a commoner-turned-knight, especially when their countries were on the brink of war. 

“That’s the highest praise, your majesty,” Anne said. “Even though I’m no longer bound by oath, I would lay down my life for her still.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, then asked, “Is your future still uncertain? You are one of the most decorated knights in the kingdom, and we were lucky to have you for so many years. When I was told you weren’t renewing your oaths, I was a bit concerned. Why?”

Anne smiled gently. “Her majesty didn’t want me in that capacity,” she answered simply. “She wanted me for a different job.”

Elizabeth turned to Ann, confusion wrinkling her eyebrows and turning her lip. Ann thought her heart might leap from her mouth. She willed time itself to freeze. She had months to prepare for the question, hours of anxiety turning the gears in her brain until their whir became a familiar piece of the cacophony, and now seconds to face a question like the blade of a guillotine and choose.

“What job?”

Ann would always choose Anne, of course. The moment had to be delicate, handled perfectly, and preferably alone with her sister, not in a massive hall where the Sutherlands—potential enemies, as Anne informed her moments ago—sat listening. Where Anne could strike with swift precision, Ann struggled to find the right moments to act. Even she knew now wasn’t the time.

“I was hoping to get your ear on it,” Ann said. “Since you and your children are next in line to this kingdom.”

From his chair, Prince Sutherland said, “That’s good. We have matters to discuss with you, too. My father’s given me direction over the business of returning the kingdom to your hands. It is against our interests to lose the partnership and peace that we’ve cultivated for so many years.”

The idea of having that conversation with Prince Sutherland present sickened her. Ann needed her sister alone, but it looked like she was going to have to fight for it.

“I think we should talk sooner rather than later, Elizabeth,” Ann said earnestly. 

Elizabeth frowned, but nodded. “I was hoping we could have some time to relax and catch up before we started talking about official things, but if you’re sure?” she said.

“You know how I hate to prolong my anxiety,” Ann laughed. “I’d rather just get it over with.”

A forced smile flitted over Elizabeth’s face. Her genuine excitement didn’t move her cheek like that or deepen the line between her eyebrows. Ann swallowed. She wondered what terrible news Elizabeth might have. Had Rawson already declared war on surrounding countries to widen his empire? Had something terrible happened to their family? Were the Sutherlands taking too much advantage of her helplessness? Each possibility deepened the pit in her stomach.

“We can go now, if you want. While everyone else gets settled,” Elizabeth suggested. “George, is the room ready?”

“We can go to my study. I have the letters in there,” he answered. “It’s a bit informal, but the servants can bring up a bottle or two of chilled wine to make up for it.”

“That’s fine,” Ann said. 

Ann’s heart thundered in her chest. She jumped when Anne’s heavy hand brushed her shoulder, then relaxed. The formality of her touch was jarring after months of overt affection.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Anne whispered.

“Yes,” Ann said. 

Ann hardly needed her for diplomatic conversations as she had in years past, but her effect on a room was magnetic. She didn’t like the anxiety in her sister’s expression or the way Prince Sutherland presumed control over the stratagem for retaking her kingdom. Where Ann’s voice might get swallowed by the prince’s, Anne would elevate her with uncompromising persistence. 

Prince Sutherland waved over two guards and led them to his study. Ann absently reached to brush Anne’s hand, but grasped at empty air. Panicked, she spun, searching for her. Anne was three or four steps behind, in line with the Sutherland’s guards. Oh. Right. A blush colored Ann’s cheeks. Anne met her gaze and winked.

Outside of the door, Prince Sutherland signaled for the guards—including Anne—to wait outside. Anne did not obey him. Instead, she looked to Ann for direction. 

“Family only, Ser Lister. Please. You understand,” he said smoothly, before Ann could speak.

Anne’s steely glare and the slight snarl of her lip denoted fierce and barely restrained anger. The expression was invisible to anyone else, but Ann knew she needed to resolve this before Anne made an enemy of him. She stepped forward, preventing Anne from drawing her sword with a discreet squeeze of her wrist.

Ann said, “She is family to me, your grace. She attends all my meetings.”

“I was hoping we could have a conversation with just the three of us,” he pressed. “There are…sensitive family matters we need to speak about. Think of this less as a meeting between dignitaries and more as a family gathering. A private family gathering.”

Ann opened her mouth to fight back, but caught her sister’s eye. The smallest movement of Elizabeth’s head said, Please don’t fight with him .

“That’s fine,” Ann said stiffly.

“I’ll be right outside the door should you need me, your majesty,” Anne murmured.

Even in full view of George and her sister, Anne managed to balance the duality of softness toward Ann and outward strength. Anne was humble. She was deferential to Anne and no one else, and the way it irked George was so subtle one could barely notice, even the prince himself. Ann longed to kiss her. 

Prince Sutherland’s study was as extravagant as the throne room. One of his walls was that same sharded glass, framing the peak of a muddy brown mountain that stood apart from the rest. The other three walls were rows of hard-bound books, the spines crisp and new. Where Ann’s father’s maps were haphazardly arranged, torn at the edges, and yellowing, his tucked neatly into leather cases, and his massive mahogany table free of clutter.

“You’re very close to her,” he said to Ann, frowning. “We don’t like to form such close connections with our servants. We find it muddies things too often.”

“I—”

“Ser Lister has been with our family for so many years and through endless tragedies. In many ways, she’s a connection to our father that we no longer have. They were so close. It makes sense that Ann is, too,” Elizabeth explained gently.

They sat in the shiny leather seats near the war table. Servants spilled into the room to serve wine, handing Ann a glass of sparking ruby liquid, then leaving as abruptly as they came. She touched the glass to her lips to be polite, let the wine wet her tongue, but didn’t drink. Elizabeth took a similar dainty sip. George swallowed a massive gulp and smacked his lips.

“Let’s get started with business, then. Your unwed status casts a lot of things into uncertainty—possible heirs that are not my—our—children, allies from another country, and other political dealings. You know and understand this. I think it would be in the interest of both of our kingdoms, especially if you want the full strength of our military behind you, to choose a partner.”

Ann’s mind spun, trying to figure out how to declare her betrothal to Anne. The uncertainties George mentioned weren’t problems to be solved, but instead a polite veil that covered his intentions to marry her within their family. The ultimatum was clear: “if you don’t marry someone we approve of, our armies won’t back you, and you will never get your kingdom.” Ann only needed to weigh the cost.

“What—who, rather—do you have in mind?” Ann said stiffly.

“Well, that’s your choice, your majesty. We wouldn’t dare impose that kind of decision on a monarch. There are a number of suitors within our kingdom that would fit your status and needs,” he replied, then nodded to his wife.

Ann swallowed, waiting for her sister to say her piece.

Elizabeth sucked her teeth, then flashed Ann a smile. This one was genuine. She added, “We have a ball in only a couple weeks, Ann. Before the leaves turn. We think that would be a wonderful place for them to introduce themselves to you and begin a partnership. It doesn’t have to be for love, but sometimes that happens. And it’s a dance. You love those. It could be fun!”

The immediate dive back into the thick of political intrigue disoriented her. Coded phrases and loaded words needed to be translated without a flicker of expression. The ball was planned for her arrival. The suitors were already chosen, and it was likely there were only one or two real options; they would present a dozen or so before her, but most would be repulsive—drunks, narcissists, fools, and the one they truly wanted her to choose would be the kindest fellow there.

They expected her to question it, naturally. So she did.

“And what if…I don’t like any of them? What if I feel they’re not right for my kingdom?” Ann asked. What if I’m already betrothed?

“Let’s hope that’s not the case,” George said sharply.

Elizabeth said, “Right, you shouldn’t think about it that way, Ann. Control the things you can. You and I can pick out a dress together. I have a tailor coming the day after tomorrow to fit me, and I’ll tell her to send for fabrics for you as well. Why don’t we try to enjoy the process?”

In many ways, the ball was an ultimatum. Instead of presenting Ann with a husband or wife to take immediately, the ball gave her a luxury she didn’t expect: time. She and Anne would have time to weigh their options and strategize accordingly—things Ann wasn’t as skilled at as she. She needed Anne’s ear. 

“Of course,” Ann answered, eager to be finished.

“Good,” George said, tipping back the rest of his drink. He cracked a smile. “That’s good. I’ve heard you were resistant to these things in the past. I’m glad we could work out an arrangement today.”

Her Aunt Ann likely wasted no time telling the Sutherlands that her niece was a difficult child. Ann nearly rolled her eyes thinking about her aunt whispering into his ear like Ann might hear from hundreds of leagues away. Political marriages were her reality, just as she told Anne over and over, but that never stopped her from hating them.

Elizabeth said, “Now, Ann, what job did you have in mind for Ser Lister? It’s important because, well—a letter came. A letter that might affect that.”

Ann blinked, bewildered. She summoned the first thought in her brain and said, “I—um, I was thinking of…my master strategist. The general of my armies, when I reacquire them. To fill the vacancy Rawson left. She has combat experience, her perspective has always been helpful, and she’s honorable, unlike him, obviously—I-I had my reasoning planned out.”

She didn’t.

She added dumbly, “But, sorry, what was the letter?”

“It’s not for you,” George said quickly, taking a piece of parchment from his desk with Rawson’s wax seal. It was broken. “It’s for the knight. Ser Lister. King Rawson and I have had a bit of a back-and-forth the last few months—a bit of politicking I took on for you in your absence, as I’m sure you wouldn’t mind—and he has a proposal for her that, if she should accept—and Elizabeth and I think, as her former liege, you should encourage her to do—would make future negotiations much, much easier for everyone involved.”

“What is it?” Ann said.

“Very, very generous. She’s a commoner, a quite ambitious one, I’m told, that’s worked her way through the ranks with the generosity of kings. And queens,” he added with a wink. “He’s offered her marriage to his cousin, and your dear friend, Catherine. If she took it, it would be a tremendous service to both of our kingdoms, as I’m sure you’ll remind her.”

The delicate cup in Ann’s lap began to tremble. Rawson’s audacity was boundless. Offering a commoner marriage into his own “royal” family was indeed generous, especially to an outsider, but reeked of something sour. He wanted Anne to live under his thumb for the rest of her life. He would remind her, over and over, of her failure, and would likely manipulate her into doing whatever he wanted. 

Yet, marriage to Catherine was a future. More than Ann could offer the knight if her campaign to take back her throne lost. She was sure Anne would never do it, yet as George and her sister continued talking, the offer seemed more and more favorable. 

Ann’s mind whirred with solutions: the two of them could continue their affair despite the marriage, or they could escape to the country whenever they wanted, if Ann failed. Anne always had better ideas than she. A conversation with her about it couldn’t hurt.

“I—I don’t know,” Ann stuttered.

The distraction was written plainly on her face. Ann didn’t realize she’d stared off into the distance thinking about it until Elizabeth calling her name brought her back to the surface.

“Ann? You became distant. What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked.

Ann blushed. Her eyes flickered to Prince Sutherland, then back to Elizabeth.

“Could you give us a moment, dear?” her sister said, smiling at him. “She looks dizzy. Could you send for some tea?”

George scoffed but left, the door clicking shut behind him. The mood in the room changed dramatically, like a weight on her chest suddenly lifted. She sighed. Elizabeth took her hand, smoothing Ann’s tense, trembling fingers.

“There’s someone,” Ann said. “That makes all this difficult. The ball. Marriages. Everything. Someone I’ve become involved with. In a very serious capacity.”

“Who is it?” she asked gently. 

Ann looked away. She squeezed her sister’s hand as she fumbled for the right words, but none surfaced to her lips. Saying Anne’s name would make it real. Words were the sort of things one couldn’t take back once they were said. They lived forever in the universe, slipping from ear to ear more covertly than the most skilled assassins, and just as deadly.

Elizabeth continued, “Is it someone inappropriate? Oh, Ann. You’ve always had a knack for those things.”

Ann groaned, “Yes.”

Elizabeth frowned, resigning herself to the guessing game. She said, “Is it…hmm…a...knight?” 

“Yes,” Ann whispered.

When realization touched her sister’s face, Ann covered her eyes with her fists. Old shame she thought she triumphed over spilled from her lips as the worst of what her sister might be thinking flitted through her brain. She loved Anne. Her very soul craved Anne’s presence, protection, and understanding, but Ann worried all the love in the world might never prevail over the reality of her station. Love was romantic. Love was for stories. The gods were real, and she their mouthpiece. 

“Gods, Ann! Not Ser Lister?”

Ann sobbed, “Aunt told you. I know she did. It was an idiotic thing, kissing her in front of everyone.”

Elizabeth’s hushed voice climbed an octave. “You kissed your kingsguard? Aunt Ann said you developed a special relationship with her, but seemed to think it was a more trivial thing. An infatuation. An affair. Not a relationship !”

“ Former kingsguard!” Ann sputtered.

“You’re a queen, Ann. She’s a—a knight. Even more, a knight of common birth . That’s…” Elizabeth paused. “Unconventional. But I suppose, travelling along the countryside for so many weeks, it’s bound to happen.”

Her sister’s shock faded quickly to contemplation. The gears turned in Elizabeth’s head as she justified a relationship Ann should never have allowed to happen. If she only knew how long it had really gone on! Guilt would tear a new hole in her heart if she let it.

“It, um, happened before that,” Ann admitted, her voice muffled by her hands.

“Before?” Elizabeth said incredulously. She cleared her throat, realizing her outburst. “How long?”

Ann flushed. “Almost three years.”

“Three years? Ann, please look at me. That’s…” 

Ann looked up fearfully. Elizabeth blinked. Ann bit her tongue, waiting. Her sister always had a good memory. She only needed to do the math.

“The...tourney?” Elizabeth said. Ann nodded. She continued, “Have you had—have you been…?”

Ann’s blush crept up her ears. Elizabeth and she always shared their crushes, stolen kisses, and people they’d dreamed of being betrothed to when they were younger. Her sister fawned over the princes while her eyes lingered on girls below her station. Elizabeth knew, and teased her, but it still felt strange sharing Anne with a member of her family after all this time. 

“It doesn’t matter, does it? No heirs,” Ann answered bitterly.

“It matters,” Elizabeth said gravely. Her eyes flashed toward the door. “He won’t like it. It complicates things.”

“He can’t know!” Ann hissed.

Elizabeth massaged the bridge of her nose. “Then what are you going to do?” she said.

“I’m going to let him down gently. I love Anne. I can’t accept his offer. She can’t accept Rawson’s offer. It’s—it’s unthinkable,” Ann said.

“And give up the kingdom? Ann, you can’t! I know Ser Lister comes from a common background—and that’s fine with me!—but she needs to accept that marriage means something different to us. It’s...a duty,” she finished, grimacing.

The assumptions implied by Elizabeth’s words left a salty taste in her mouth. Ann’s gathering anxiety flared into frustration. Of course she told Anne these things, she was raised with the same expectations as Elizabeth, she knew her predestined path, in that sense. She wasn’t groomed for the crown like her brother, she didn’t know that this duty was going to be thrust upon her in the dead of night, and her only teacher for the task was experience itself.

Ann was not an idiot. She was not a child taking her first steps. Her idealism—her desperate desire for the world to be different—didn’t mean that she dismissed reality itself. The things her sister resigned herself to, Ann wanted to change, and she didn’t care how naive it made her sound. Because she wasn’t.

“I’ve explained this to her. And she’s been around us for years, she’s not stupid,” Ann snapped. “Ugh, I’m sorry, it’s just—I don’t know if I can live a life like that. How do I wake up in the morning knowing I sent her away with someone else? And for a crown she protected with her life? It’s not fair, and it doesn’t matter that the world isn’t fair, because it should be, and I’ll make it that way. I want to marry her. I will,” she resolved.

Just as disclosing her relationship with Anne to Elizabeth seemed to make it more real, this declaration cemented the choice in her heart. Ann didn’t know how it could happen, only that it would, even if she had to fight the gods tooth and nail to get it. Desperation filled her with ferocity. She would take on the gods themselves now, if she could. Her anger was such that she couldn’t lose.

Elizabeth brushed her arm. Her touch tethered Ann to reality.

“I love you, Ann. I want the best for you. I want you to be happy. You and Ser Lister have my blessing,” Elizabeth said softly. “But I’m not sure how much that matters. You need to be smart. If he finds out, the kingdom is at stake. The two of you might be abandoned, assassinated, killed. Crossing him after he’s helped you take the kingdom—Ann, it’s a war you’ll lose.”

“I know,” Ann said. It was as much as she’d figured. “He won’t help me unless I marry who he wants, anyways. We’re trapped.”

Her voice cracked. Despite her determination and fury, a seed of doubt worked its way in. Recklessness was childish. Acting like the force of her will would get her anything she wanted, especially to the chagrin of the gods, was laughable. Ann was a queen. She told herself she wouldn’t cry, yet being vulnerable with her sister was second nature. Few others could understand the weight she carried. Few others could see the doubt before it ever sprouted.

“You aren’t,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Ser Lister is smart. The two of you will figure it out. Go to the ball. Play along with what they want. No one will make you commit to anyone you don’t want to commit to—at least, not right away.”

The way she said it, it sounded easy enough. Go along with it. Play pretend—something they did for years with relative ease. This time, though, Ann feared it might be too much for her lover, who was fed up with hiding in the shadows. Ann didn’t want to hurt her, but the letter in her hand and the suggestion it carried with it was as heavy and sharp as a knife.

Chapter Text

Ann should have told Anne about Rawson’s letter, the ball, Prince Sutherland’s threats, everything right away, but she didn’t. She knew Anne would need to solve it, she knew Anne would need to hear conviction in Ann’s voice when she said she wouldn’t—no, she couldn’t —ask Anne to marry Catherine as political favor to her kingdom, or that she wouldn’t marry who the Sutherlands thrust upon her at the ball, but Ann couldn’t muster bravery any longer. She was exhausted. She needed to be vulnerable. She needed Anne to kiss her and tell her everything was going to be all right.

When they left the study, Ann said, “I need to freshen up. Ser Lister, will you escort me?”

She hated to be so formal. Red rings around her eyes and flushed cheeks made it obvious that she had been crying. When they rounded the first corner, Anne’s hand found hers. 

Ann loved that hand. Warm, calloused, soft. She pressed her lips to each of Anne’s fingertips in a series of reverent kisses. Anne let her do as she wished without question, and kissed Ann’s forehead while she gathered words.

“I wish you were there with me,” Ann finally managed.

“What’s happened?” Anne asked sternly.

Her sweet knight. She asked like the solution was the right combination of confidence, willpower, and political intuition. Perhaps she was right. But the letter in Ann’s pocket was a terrible, venomous thing, and she couldn’t bring herself to hand it over and risk tainting the source of her respite. Not now. Not when she needed Anne’s gentleness most.

“It’s cruel of me to ask you to wait,” Ann choked. “But I can’t. I-I just need you. Can you forgive me?”

Anne’s finger traced the edge of her jaw. Her skin hummed under her touch, the sensation lingering like a point of light streaking across the night sky, its trail like a ghost. Ann leaned in, asking for more, but Anne pet the tip of her nose and lifted her chin with the gentlest pressure.

“What am I forgiving you for?” she murmured.

“Asking you to wait,” Ann said. She hated the gravel in her voice.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Anne assured her. “Tell me later. What do you need right now, your majesty?”

Ann giggled at her playful formality. They threaded their fingers together, and she led them into an empty sitting room. Thick tarps caked in dust covered the furniture.. She peeled the tarp back from one of the chairs and pushed Anne into it. Anne obeyed, falling back at the lightest touch of Ann’s fingers as though her body was a leaf and Ann’s will a powerful wind. Her armor clinked and her chainmail grated against the fabric. She unbuckled her sword, leaned it against the arm of the chair, and fumbled when it slid with a clatter to the floor.

They winced at the cacophony, then shared a smile.

Ann locked the door and clambered onto her lap, shivering when her bare thighs touched cold steel. Anne slipped her hands under the skirt of her dress to grip her thighs. She smoothed her palm lightly over her butt, her hips, up her stomach and back down, squeezing her legs, and drawing small circles on the inside of her thigh with an index finger. Her finger caught and slipped on Ann’s arousal and Ann’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation.

“Is this all right?” Anne said, knowing full well it was.

“Please don’t tease me anymore,” she whined.

Anne murmured low and gravelly in Ann’s ear, “Only because you’re so good to me.”

Before the words in Ann’s brain made it to her lips, Anne’s finger slipped easily inside her. Ann groaned at being filled, a mixture of relief  from one ache and a trigger for a new one. She canted her hips gently, kneeling higher in Anne’s lap to give her a better angle.

The knight kissed the soft flesh below her breast and steadied her with a firm grip on the small of her back. Ann’s low whimper filled the room, and she collapsed onto Anne’s hard shoulder, the sharp decoration on the armor stinging her cheek. Despite the pain, she didn’t move. She didn’t want to. 

Anne chuckled gently, her warm breath brushing her ear. 

She said, “You have to be quiet, your majesty. There are servants everywhere, and they have keys to these rooms.”

“Why do they have keys?” Ann giggled. Anne’s gentle strokes on her clit lengthened her y’s into flourishing whines. 

Anne’s grin grew, and she answered in the same husky voice, “Because their kingsguard is incompetent.” 

“Not like mine,” Ann cooed into her mouth.

“Mmm, no, not like yours,” Anne agreed, and kissed her.

Anne curled the finger inside her gently, her rough and calloused fingertip immediately brushing the spot that filled Ann’s mouth and brain with stars. Ann collapsed onto her chest, her arms hanging limply over Anne’s shoulders. She sank her hips into Anne’s hand, pushing her ever deeper, and stifled her cries into the sliver of Anne’s neck that peeked through her gorget. 

“Am-m I being q-quiet enough?” Ann gasped.

“Yes,” Anne breathed into her mouth. “You’re a very good girl. You’re doing so well.”

The praise stoked a heat deep between her legs. Ann wanted to make her proud. To give her anything and everything she wanted. What she couldn’t do before she desperately wanted to make up for here, now, while she could. She could make Anne feel powerful, in control, and maybe the chaos of their situation wouldn’t feel so hopeless.

“More,” she gasped, shuddering. “Two, Anne—no, three.”

Anne obeyed, slipping two more of her fingers inside. Ann choked on her own stifled gasp. Anne curled her fingers. Her thumb kneaded her clit. It was unfair that Anne could pleasure her so easily and so calmly, grinning while Ann spilled around her and trembled at her chest, gripping her shoulders for dear life.

“You’re greedy,” Anne chastised mirthfully. “All I usually need is one finger to make you come. This grand castle has already changed you, your majesty.”

Ann wanted to laugh and cry. Her body burst with feelings she couldn’t put her finger on, and while her mind struggled to name them Anne’s gentle strokes whisked them away, reminding her of the increasing wet between her legs and the ache chasing every thought until her body couldn’t take it anymore. Anne sensed her coming, and held her tightly at the small of her back, pressing them close together, kissing between her breasts while fluttering pressure reverberated throughout her body.

Anne’s gentle sweetness was a soothing thing. Each kiss extinguished a flicker of fear, like a dozen tiny flames, but paled in wake of the wildfire beneath. Easing her fears was hopeless, yet Anne would die trying.

“I love you,” Ann whispered. Melancholy overcame her, and her bottom lip trembled. “I promise. No matter what.”

Ann twirled a lock of brown-and-gray hair around her finger, then tucked it behind Anne’s ear. She loved her. She loved her. She wished she could imbue each touch with the love she felt, and that Anne could feel it too, and any doubt that existed might be erased.

“Don’t say it like that,” Anne said, frowning.

“Like what?”

“Like—I don’t know, Ann. Like you’re worried I don’t believe it,” she said. 

Anne’s palm warmed her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut, leaning in to the touch, the hills and valleys in her hand gentle, her intimacy everlasting. Ann wanted that power. The letter burned in the pocket of her dress. She needed that power, so Anne would know not to run, so Anne might listen to her when she said, “No, just—wait.”

That’s what terrified her—Anne leaving for good, doing something drastic just to set herself free, as she had before.

“Do you? Believe me, I mean,” Ann whispered. “When I say ‘I love you, I’ll do anything for you’—you’ll never forget it?”

“I believe you. I promise,” Anne said, peppering gentle kisses on her cheeks and mouth between each word. “You’re the sweetest girl in any kingdom, and certainly among the nobility—you’re all vulgar, usually. But I trust you, despite all my instincts calling me a fool. I do.”

Ann smiled, but her lover’s words troubled her. From the muscle memory required to wield a sword to her sixth sense for looming danger, she relied on Anne’s instincts, often trusting her life to them. Anne set them aside in the name of her devotion to Ann, and for the first time, Ann understood the necessity for the kingsguard’s vows. Fear gripped her heart. Her chest ached from the struggle.

Ann loved her, but Rawson’s letter and the Sutherlands’ proposal would break her heart. Ann loved her, but she couldn’t be trusted. She was too much of an idiot to solve the problem herself, and too much a coward to choose between the two things she loved most.

Anne chose to trust her over her own instincts, and she was wrong. The cruelty of the gods was unfathomable; like choking herself with her own possessed arm, Ann would punish her sweet, loving, gentle knight for displaying the bravery she herself did not possess—bravery to sacrifice. Bravery to choose.

Chapter Text

Prince Sutherland was an idiot. Anne sneered, watching him adjust the delicate little crown tangled in his hair. Anne believed—as most commoners did—that a crown was a symbol of the power the gods ceded to mortals. Following this logic, it made sense that the prince’s crown was thin and wiry, and dull, regardless of its polish. Despite being born into power, George Sutherland lusted and connived for the few things luck did not bestow upon him. His father’s throne was one; he was king already in all but name, his father little more than a wilting puppet in a crown. Ann’s kingdom was another worthy target, if a predictable one, and the possibility kept Anne on high alert. 

While Ann and George hunched over the war table, Anne walked the perimeter of the study, taking note of their surroundings. The prince wouldn’t inflict physical harm on Ann—they were family—but the finger length gap between two bookshelves was worthy of note, as it signaled a secret room. Anne frowned. It was on the eastern wall, facing the village—a perfect place for a hidden passage, too. She would have to investigate it later.

Ann’s father taught Anne to appreciate a neat desk. Organization might be chaotic, numbering and labelling could be haphazard, but it must be neat so one knows what one’s doing, regardless of the time or company. Anne caught on to hints of order on the Prince’s desk, despite a surface laden with rolls of parchment and sticky remnants of meals taken there: the most obvious was a stack of letters with broken seals, the top from a dignitary in a nearby—but unallied—kingdom; a new map leaned against his chair, tucked in a pristine leather case; Anne fingered a small metal statuette in the shape of a woman, tarnished brown and grey with age. Its reflective surface was long gone, and Anne didn’t see George behind her until he cleared his throat.

“Are you quite finished snooping, Ser Lister?” he said.

“I’m simply admiring this lovely trinket, your grace,” Anne explained, emphasizing his title. “It’s clearly well-loved. Is it special to you?”

“Ann invited you to this meeting under the pretense that you would take it seriously,” he scolded. “As a former soldier, I’m surprised you’d rather dig through someone’s things when discussions of stratagem are taking place.”

“The first thing a soldier does in take in their surroundings, your grace, and endeavor to know their allies as well as their enemies,” Anne replied. She bit her tongue before she insulted him further on the matter, but struggled to hold back in the case of his callous forgetfulness of Ann’s title. “In any case, her majesty is perfectly capable of speaking to me herself, you needn’t cower behind her to speak your mind to a servant.”

“I think we know each other quite well by now, don’t you?” he said. 

The prince’s curled lip exposed his frustration. A smirk played on Anne’s lips. He was an idiot, and easy to read. Outplaying him on the matter of their betrothal would be embarrassingly simple, if the girl would only trust her instincts. Anne’s gaze flickered to her betrothed, and George’s followed.

Even from across the room, he looked at Ann like she already belonged to him, and her significance began and ended at her usefulness as his mouthpiece in another kingdom he longed to control. Anne glared. He was a man who thought of himself as wearing two crowns upon his head, when in reality he wore none. She would remind him of that fact. 

“Yes,” she finally said. “I think we do.”

Anne paced around the table to block his view of the queen, pretending to study the map. Even from a quick glance, it was the most beautiful rendering of Lidgate Anne had ever seen. Freshly-inked lettering framed cities and curled over forests, marshes, and mountain ranges. Different hues of greens and browns marked changes in elevation. Equally pristine wooden models of lions and dogs opposed each other at Ann’s castle, arranged in varying formations.

Prince Sutherland filled the last hour with endless explanations of tactical stratagem to Ann, answering questions before she asked them like she was a child. Comments that would have reddened Anne’s cheeks with fury didn’t seem to bother Ann, who brushed them off with a smile and a clever question. Anne bit her tongue while they theorized the effect of different formations. Prince Sutherland’s frustration mounted while Ann grew increasingly curious. A smile touched Anne’s lips at Ann’s wrinkled brow and pursed lips. She was cute when she focused.

    Anne’s knuckles turned white from gripping the table. Ann—bless her, she was so clever even when she didn’t have any experience at all—was asking the wrong questions and drawing the two of them round and round in circles. Prince Sutherland took advantage of her inexperience by masking his own. Ann needed a general with clout, humility, knowledge, and her interests in mind. Why did worthy, intelligent women always draw a crowd of lecherous and incompetent men around them like flies to honey?

    Anne touched her queen’s forearm gently to get her attention. Ann jumped, then covered her mouth and giggled at her own reaction.

    “Ugh, I’m ridiculous,” she laughed. “What is it, Anne?”

    “May I fill the space of your general and offer advice, your majesty?” Anne blurted, glaring at Prince Sutherland. 

    “Of course,” Ann replied. 

    Anne stepped in front of the map, frowning. She held one of the yellow lion models representing the Sutherland army in her hand. Regardless of weapons, training, and even nation, armies were never monolithic. Prince Sutherland may have watched battle from the sidelines or received counseling from past generals, but he was never a soldier. He never had experience holding a sword or spear in the field, knowing which way to move, how to rely on others around him, and never felt an army as a living, breathing force all its own. 

“Your men are used to the mountains doing half the work for them, your grace. Fending off intruders from a naturally protected castle is a remarkably different task from seizing one from an experienced man who knows the castle grounds nearly as well as her majesty and I do. It’s admirable that you’re prepared to fight in such unfavorable conditions, but how will your men actually succeed?” Anne said.

Anne hated to address him as halfway competent, much less her equal, but the power he held over them stayed her tongue. Ann promised to debrief their meeting later, but something the prince said in that room upset her. Was Ann already betrothed to someone else, and if so—to whom? The possibility sent fire humming in her veins.

Prince Sutherland sighed and stood from his chair, circling the table to stand beside her. Anne smirked when she realized she was a hair taller than the prince. It was a meaningless victory, but she’d take it. Perhaps he had the same thought, or the gleam of light off her heavy armor blinded him, or the massive longsword at her waist intimidated him, and he stepped aside.

With a few feet of distance between them, he said, “Agreed. Storming the thing would be suicide, no matter how large our army. A siege is much safer, I think. It’ll take a few years, but we’ll have it eventually.”

“Prince—” Ann began.

Anne laughed. “A few years! Sorry, your majesty, for speaking over you—I know as much as a person can about that castle, your grace. I served her majesty and her father for almost two decades, and the food stores in that palace could feed us for longer.”

“What’re you hoping for, then? A change of heart? Aid from the rest of the world’s nations, who look on at your warring kingdom like a pack of hungry wolves? You’ll find no other friends but us. My army is the largest you’ll get. You might ask your knight to be more reasonable, Ann,” he said stiffly. “No one else will help you.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. For a man that claimed to loathe the “wolves” he spoke of, a hint of that same desperate hunger glimmered in his eye. Unlike the armies that prowled the borders and nipped at the edges of the kingdom, the Sutherlands had a different strategy: by positioning themselves as Ann’s only allies, they would twist, bend, and bleed her as they pleased, forcing Ann to hand over all of her power in fistfuls before her kingdom was even retaken. Ann would be a puppet in her own kingdom, if there was any of it left.

While Anne struggled to voice her concern appropriately, Ann blurted, “What do you mean, like a pack of wolves?”

The prince bit back a smile. He stepped toward the northern perimeter of the map, and set a line of deep purple figures at the edge, moving them further in while he spoke. “I have scouts watching the activity in the northern and southern ends of your kingdom. The northeastern end has been invaded—Elizabeth told me you’ve always had trouble there. I figured you already knew or suspected. They’ve moved further in in the last few weeks, faster than I expected. It would seem Rawson left this entire swathe unguarded. Whether through arrogance or the necessity of severing a diseased limb, I don’t know.”

Anne frowned. The burden of her absence in the capital in the final days—the final year, really—before Rawson’s betrayal weighed upon her more heavily in this moment than any other. Not emotionally—those moments of darkness had pressed on her unbearably each night, and often when Ann mentioned something she missed. Here, now, not knowing Rawson as well as she thought was like swinging a sword with a lost limb—unbalanced, uncertain, unpracticed, easily caught off-guard. Making mistakes in this position was deadly.

Anne knew Rawson as a man that valued conquest, and through it, his legacy, at any cost. He had sacrificed much to take the northern part of the kingdom from their neighbors, flirting with war for the better part of two decades. She couldn’t figure out why he would give it up now, when he wasn’t even on the back foot. 

Anne began carefully, “On our journey here, the roads were overgrown and unpatrolled. I don’t know why, but it seems he’s left most of the kingdom defenseless. Most able-bodied men and women from the villages are signed as part of the army, but the road wardens and guards meant to protect them have pulled back. Why would a man who would commit treason to buff his legacy leave so much of his kingdom vulnerable?”

    “He’s left them to the dukes,” Ann said. “To disperse their armies over the dukedoms.”

    “Why? Aren’t they loyal to him?” Anne shot back.

    “Apparently not!” Ann said excitedly. “Those selfish bastards are doing the same as him—withdrawing to their own palaces, protecting themselves. Which is good for us, for once.”

    Anne allowed herself a small smile. Largely for Ann’s excitement, but the prospect of Rawson struggling to gain favor with the dukes after his coup sparked more joy in her heart than she cared to admit. She wished they were alone so she could point out to Ann that despite her many struggles and frustrations with the dukes, she had gained their respect and favor.

    Instead, Anne said, “What do you think we should do?”

    “Write a letter and ask for their help!” Ann said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

    “Are you daft?” 

    Anne’s cheeks burned crimson with rage. She began, “How dare you—”

    “I’ll remind you, Prince Sutherland, that you’re still speaking to a queen,” Ann chastised coldly. “I’ve forgiven a number of transgressions on your part on account of our relationship and your hospitality. However, you can’t simply say whatever you want without consequence. I would hate to bother his majesty for a more civil representative. Would you like to try again?”

    The prince paled. Anne raised her eyebrows, surprised at Ann’s boldness. She had more backbone than either of them gave her credit for.

    “I apologize, your majesty. You know how my passions take hold of me,” he said through his teeth. “I only mean to suggest—these dukes are hardly allies. You can’t bank on gaining the favor of one or two for sizable support, you’d need nearly all of them— if their armies haven’t already been crippled by the traitor’s. If they aren’t willing to protect their own people to spite him, why would they do anything for you?”

    Ann scrunched her face, pondering the question. It was a reasonable concern, as the dukes’ unwillingness to jump to Rawson’s aid didn’t necessarily symbolize support for their former queen—it merely hinted at an uncharacteristic lack of fear. These were men and women that squabbled over the silliest inconveniences, asking their monarch to settle pointless disputes even when more massive threats loomed over their own dukedoms. Perhaps they thought Rawson would deal with these threats as Ann always had—automatically, often without being summoned, and never with the promise of gratitude, like a mother cleans up after her children.

    “They’re like children,” Anne offered. “Perhaps they can be moved to action with the promise of a reward and more than a little guilt?”

    Thank the gods Eliza isn’t like that , Anne thought. She would never tell the girl that, though.

    Ann nodded. She said, “Yes. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? It was you who taught me the power of a well-worded letter, Ser Lister. With the dukes on our side—well, it would already be won before it started, wouldn’t it?”

    “Yes, your majesty, I think so,” Anne agreed. They shared a smile.

    “Hmm,” George scoffed, but said nothing else.

    Anne narrowed her eyes. Yes, she would have to investigate him. Regardless of his power over them in the situation, he should have been pleased with the idea of more troops under his command and powerful allies. He was hiding something, and Anne would get to the bottom of it, lest they suffered another betrayal.

***

Ann worked on her letters to the dukes late into the night. Anne tried not to bother her—well, not too often—and the monarch suffered her presence with shy smiles and lingering glances. She was so busy, and with a pang in her chest, Anne wondered if Ann growing into her role with such solemnity was a fault of her absence during those long months. Ann wrote with fierce concentration—and slowly, meticulously, as if the writing of each word on the page tangled a piece of her soul with it.

The scratch of her pen on the parchment was the loudest sound in the room. If Anne sat still for too long, the stippled picking and harsh scraping dug into her brain, like her ears themselves were the cursed parchment. She stood from the chair across the desk, and swept the length of the empty study, looking for something to entertain her.

“Do you think enough of the dukes will write back?” Anne blurted.

Ann set her pen down, shaking her head. “I don’t know. They’re adept at self-preservation. They have options to weigh. Who they think will win, if a war were to break out. Maybe Rawson has anticipated this, and is watching them closely for signs of treason.”

“Would you do it, if you were in their place?”

Ann smiled shyly. “When has what I’ve done ever been a measure of what others would do?”

Anne laughed gently. She was right, of course. Her love had a mind of her own, entirely different from those who surrounded her—even Anne.

“You don’t have to be here if you’re bored,” Ann suggested sweetly, misreading Anne’s silence. “I’m safe—Ser Washington has guards stationed every hour of the day with frequent switching, just like you used to. I don’t want to keep you from doing something fun.”

Anne smiled halfheartedly. She had an ulterior motive for staying here, of course—Ann still hadn’t briefed her on the details of her meeting with her sister and the prince. Not wanting to disturb her, she hadn’t pressed Ann for the information, but now that she gave her the chance—

“Will you tell me what he said?” Anne asked gently.
    Ann inhaled sharply, as though she’d forgotten about it altogether, then grimaced. “Shit,” she said softly.

Ann shuffled papers in the drawers of the borrowed desk, then withdrew a folded letter with a broken seal from the chaos. She held it delicately, as though it might burst into flame at any moment. Then she opened her mouth, jumped as though she’d just found herself behind a desk, and scrambled to stand beside Anne. 

“I—I don’t know how to tell you,” she began, stuttering. “It’s, well—I’m afraid it’s a bit cruel. I didn’t want to tell you. I thought, maybe if I sent the letters quickly enough—”

“Tell me what?” Anne pressed, her tone harsher than she intended.

Ann winced. “Um, yes, that doesn’t matter now, I suppose. I only meant, maybe I could avoid any of this happening altogether, because—you see—I don’t want it to, Anne. My love. I love you,” she added in a whisper. It sounded like a plea.

“What could be this bad?” Anne said. She tried to be gentle, but anxiety sharpened the edge in her voice.

Ann took a breath. She seemed aware that whatever she said next bore the weight of their future. 

“Prince Sutherland has arranged to have me married off to his kin as the price for his army,” Ann said quickly. 

She closed her eyes, as if not seeing Anne’s expression might brace her against her reaction. Anne grit her teeth, but stifled the anger that flared in her chest at the idea.

“And you said no,” Anne said. It wasn’t a question.

Ann’s little hands tightened to fists. She dug them into her hair, pulling, as if plucking every hair in her head might rid her of her brewing frustration.

“It’s not that easy , Anne! Of course I don’t want to,” Ann growled. “I’m an unmarried monarch with little else to offer for an army large enough to take back my kingdom. Allegiance has a cost .”

Anne spat, “Everything has a cost. Perhaps Prince Sutherland should be reminded that his wife is your sister, and the price for allegiance has already been paid. It’s in his interest for the kingdom to be claimed by an ally already bound by marriage.”

How could Ann not see that this was all so simple? The prince was a powerful man, and conniving, but not clever enough to outsmart the pair of them. All they needed was time—digging their heels in against the Sutherlands’ plans, gathering allies in her own kingdom as well as his, and he could be cast aside in a moment. He was nothing. He was as insignificant as an insect beneath her heel.

“You’re right, you’re always right. But I have a feeling he’s going to withhold it, anyway,” Ann said. “My gut feels that being queen again is right. It also feels that marrying you is right. But my sister, m-my family, the tradition of the crown—all say differently. I don’t know how to translate the feeling of my gut into the words that will change their minds.”

Funny, how Anne felt exactly the same way in that moment. If it were possible to change Ann’s mind—her outlook, her anxiety, and undo a lifetime of conditioning—with words, Anne would surely do it now. If her desires and words mattered, she begged the gods that Ann would heed them now. Anne fell to her knees. She drew her sword. She leaned on it, bent in prayer, and pleaded to Ann and the gods themselves to listen.

“Just tell them,” Anne said. “Tell them. Tell them we love each other, and if their interest is an ally to their kingdom, they will do it. Name him as the heir if you must. Their sons and daughters, regardless of anyone who may be seen as more fit to succeed you. We’ll never have them, it doesn’t matter. There are other bargaining chips, Ann.”

Ann bit her lips. She folded her hands over Anne’s on the pommel of the sword. The gesture was meant to soothe her, but Anne felt like a wretched fool. She stood, sheathing her sword. Ann avoided her eyes, suddenly so meek, trembling where they stood together.

“There’s, um, there’s more. Next week, the prince is hosting a ball. A dozen suitors have been arranged—all without my permission or consent, obviously. But it’s not for sure —well, it is, but we can bide our time without making a formal proposal. We can wait for the dukes to write back. Maybe we won’t have to play games with Prince Sutherland at all,” she said hopefully.

“A ball,” Anne repeated. She frowned. “And I suppose I get to be your guard while you mingle with these suitors. Ugh! I’ll loathe doing it, Ann, and I don’t know that I’ll be able to hold back when they look at you like they deserve to stand in your presence.”

Ann looked at her feet. “Um, no, not exactly,” she said. “You being my guard, I mean. You are—you’ll always, always be more than that to me, I wouldn’t insult you by making you— do that , but—”

“’B-but?’” Anne snapped, frustrated. “But what?”

“Gods, I hate to keep giving you bad news after bad, but—I—I received a letter...that contains a marriage proposal.”

Anne’s lip curled. “From who?”

“General Rawson.”

Anne could have screamed. “You’re not seriously considering—”

“It’s not for me,” Ann interrupted. “And it’s not to him, specifically. It’s, um, a relative of his.”

Ann glanced at her, then looked sheepishly down. Her hands pinched the corners of the letter. They trembled.

Anne waited for her to continue.

“It’s for you,” she finally said. “He’s learned that I released you from your oaths. He’s offered Catherine’s hand in marriage for your—and my—loyalty. Anne...you might think on it. You can go home. Take care of your aunt. Participate in tourneys. You—you’d be married into a powerful family.”

Anger coiled in her belly. The family still had a tight, suffocating grip on her. Her sweet Ann, trapped in their squabbling and nonsense and politics while the pressure tightened around her like a snake. Her sword was useless. The political relationships she cultivated and the ears she planted around the old castle, useless. They finally beat her, and sent the love of her life to cut the ties. 

Anne wouldn’t accept it. She certainly refused to take it lying down.

    “Why does he think my loyalty is tied to yours? Why not ask for your hand in marriage?” Anne demanded.

    “It’s part of a list of requests. He’s asked for mine to his nephew—his heir,” she said, grimacing. “Prince Sutherland refused it on my behalf, of course. He needed that particular hold over me. But, if I were to write back and accept, it would give him legitimacy to the throne.”

    Anne growled, “A throne he stole from you! Treasonous bastard. And you think I would, even for a second, consider this?”

    “I think it isn’t my choice to consider,” Ann said matter-of-factly. She sighed. “Marriage is a bargaining chip, Anne. A frivolous thing when times are good, but now? These are circumstances when a proposal changes the course of history.”

    “Frivolous?” Anne spurted.

    “Anne, I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant. If it meant anything to you—anything good, anything lasting and soul-binding—you’d see what this does— is doing to me. Royalty!” she spat it like a curse. “Play games. Do what you want. Just leave me out of it.”

The girl was so sweet. Even as furious as she was, Anne couldn’t storm out on her. Couldn’t leave her. Ann was as trapped by the situation as she.

“ Anne ,” Ann begged. There it was, the girl bloody pleading again. “That’s what I’m telling you. Maybe—maybe we just wait. See if the dukes write back. Besides, this is our worst case scenario—and if we must take it, things between us don’t necessarily have to change .”

“They would change,” Anne countered coldly. “Absolutely.”

“And why would things change? We’ve kept our relationship a secret for years,” Ann protested. “We could have everything. I would be able to serve my kingdom again, possibly without going to war, if our negotiations were good enough. We would—”

    “Everything would change,” Anne snapped. “Everything. Marriage is an oath—I would never betray my wife. And you, married to someone else, it—it isn’t the same.”

For the first time in a long while, Anne thought of Mariana. Sorrow sucked her into a lingering dark, one that never quite left—because of course it was going to happen again. This was her curse—even knighthood couldn’t elevate her enough to be desirable to the women she loved. The familiarity of Ann’s words, especially their proximity to her heart, somehow made them sting more.

“Okay! Then we just—we just wait—wait for the dukes to write back, and then we see what happens,” Ann pleaded. She fell to her knees, a trembling hand clutching Anne’s sash.

How could this have gone so awry? When poets spoke of hurt, their words were the puckered edges of a healing heart remembering, not the slicing gash or the twisting blade of the moment. Not the fresh cut, the flesh opening at the whim of a sharpened blade and the hand that held it. “Trust me,” “Wait”—those words were daggers, as piercing and deadly as their steel cousins. How could she love the hand that wielded them against her so deeply, over and over again?

She whispered, “How long do I wait? I need an end, Ann. When the dukes give their answers? When you take back your kingdom? When I’m lowered into my grave, and my spirit hears your whimper of regret? Or not at all?”

“Of course. Of course I will.” Ann grasped Anne’s hands in hers. “I will. I promise.”

“It’s political for you,” Anne said bitterly. “Not about love. I need to know that you mean it.”

“It’s important to you, that’s all that matters,” Ann promised.

“Then demand what you want,” Anne said. Tears blurred her vision. “Rip it from the fabric of the universe. Claim our fate from the will of the gods. We can do it together.”

Ann’s bottom lip trembled. Anne was finally desperate enough to be visible, her pain like the pooling blood from a severed limb, and Ann sat next to her, murmuring prayers while she died instead of applying the tourniquet that might save her.

Ann cried, “You don’t understand! How could you, when our burdens are so different. I can’t just choose what I want, Anne! I can’t ask my family—I can’t ask the gods themselves—to change.”

“Yes, you can, Ann. You are allowed to be selfish,” Anne said. Her voice cracked.

Ann huffed, “Am I? And what has my selfishness wrought, over and over? Your pain, my pain, it’s—” She choked on tears she would not let out. “When I’m with you, everything feels right. But then, out there, it’s—it’s too much.”

The distance between them lengthened, though Ann stepped nearer to her. Desperate, Anne reached out to her, and Ann reached back. Their fingers threaded together, then their limbs, and Ann fell, shaking, into her arms. Anne held her close. For a minute, they breathed together in silence. 

“What are you so afraid of?” Anne said.

Ann murmured, “A war, Anne. From the Sutherlands who—who seem to think I’ll marry for the soldiers I need. And from Rawson, who has offered us a way to resolve this with peace, but that—that betrays my heart. And you. And I worry for the lives that may be taken because—because of my selfishness.”

Anne sat back, measuring the situation. Ann was right, of course. She was cleverer than anyone gave her credit for. Even Anne. Her ears burned from the shame of it. Ann wasn’t whimsical or insipid—the risks she took could alter history immediately, forever, and she knew it. Ann was the sun, warming the entire world. Anne was a speck of dust in the void. She was lucky to have any claim on the girl at all.

“Do you know how it feels to ask me to wait?” Anne finally said.

Ann patted stray wisps from Anne’s braid back with the whole of her hand. She whispered, “I'll avoid it if I can, my love. I’ll draw Sutherland’s plans out as long as possible. I promise. Do you trust me?”

Trust. Ann said it so simply, as if they’d gotten this far together on the wings of something greater. Anne rarely pondered the fragility of oaths, which, once broken, were useless. Oaths required discipline. Trust was more malleable, yet that was where it gained its strength—trust could be mended, taken back as easily as it was given, and cherished when it lasted. What was greater than trust? Even the gods struggled to mimic something as valuable or binding.

“I do,” Anne said, and she meant it.

Chapter Text

Ann fidgeted with her dress. It was a far more extravagant thing—so much lace and embroidery and tatters of useless silk for decoration—than she would have chosen for the event, but her sister and Queen Sutherland had insisted on it. That the women entrusted matters of war and state to her, but fussed over and strong-armed her into fashion choices was something she made a note to vent to Anne about—once Anne decided to stop brooding around her, anyway. 

“ Elizabeth ,” Ann had whined, resisting the urge to itch the pinned seam running down the middle of her back. “This is pointless. It’s too much, you know I won’t even—"

“I know, but you must. You don’t have a choice. Besides, one of them might catch your eye. You might not fall in love, but you could find an equal partnership, and mutual respect. That would be good, wouldn’t it?” Elizabeth had said earnestly.

If anyone else had said it, Ann might have been bitter. However, Elizabeth knew the cost of an arranged marriage more than Ann ever hoped to. The father married Elizabeth off to secure an alliance with the Sutherlands—who, even then, had threatened war—only to find it could be rendered meaningless in a single night. In Elizabeth’s eyes, Ann was incredibly lucky to be handed so many choices. So, she grit her teeth and deflated, if only for her sister. 

Marrying anyone but Anne was impossible. She wouldn’t be swayed. Ann needed to kiss the knight’s crudely scarred lip like she needed air to breathe. Her speeches to Anne about duty, about marriage being a tool, about what was possible weren’t things she wanted. They were the truth. They were reality. They were the obstacles they had to overcome, and ignoring them would only worsen their situation. Ann wanted the romance of ripping what they wanted from the fabric of the universe, just as Anne did, but some things couldn’t be won with a show of strength. Just as she needed Anne, Anne needed her, and she wouldn’t fail.

Ann prayed to the gods in every way she knew how for the dukes to band together with her. She sent missives to mercenaries, planted agents among servants in the Sutherland palace, and flexed her father’s old connections for anything she could use. Sloppiness was unacceptable. Only Anne and Ser Washington knew the names of all of her contacts. 

The first test for her new system was discovering the suitors Prince Sutherland set up for Ann and the profitable connections marriage would provide for both parties. She planted a literate servant into the cleaning rotation for the Prince’s office with troublesome ease, instructing them to read his letters throughout the week to affirm their identities. By Friday, Ann had all their names, and by the next Wednesday knew his interest in each.

The suitors were, all in all, an unimpressive lot. They ranged from wealthy friends to the daughter of an outspoken politician to lesser nobility from faraway kingdoms. Each was an insult to her station, save for one or two. Ann’s family would likely encourage her toward those, despite their contempt for Anne, who in title, accolades, and honor was greater than their equal. That was the purpose in all this, of course—forcing Ann to accept betrothal to one of them. It demonstrated the Sutherland’s control over her and the kingdom she represented.

The day before the event, Ann revealed she knew the identities of the candidates to her family, who rushed to tell her their already fully-formed opinions on the matter. Catherine shyly suggested Lady Craine, the politician’s daughter, claiming she—despite her shock of red hair, girlish femininity, and being two decades younger—“looked a smidge like Ser Lister, under a certain light.” Her sister thought Ser Philbury—one of George’s wealthy friends and a false knight, given his title rather than having earned it, according to Anne—might be one of the better choices. However, Ann refrained from making any decisions before meeting them. She would marry a person, after all—not a piece of parchment. 

Still, Ann regarded herself in the mirror, holding her chin high. Delicate gold embroidered her ivory corset in lavish patterns, and a long, creamy skirt spilled from her hips. Flecks of silver glittered in the transparent puff of her sleeves, which framed her pale, freckled arms like a swathe of clouds tints the sky with refracted sunlight. The dress was too ethereal—not for her, but for the event itself. Whichever shabby, unworthy suitor she chose would be engulfed in its shadow. Resentment on both sides tainted any betrothal she might make tonight. 

Ann sat in her room, holding on to the last few minutes of quiet before the ball. A small piece of her held her breath for Anne to appear and wish her luck, but understandably, the knight never came. The only sounds were the ticking clocks and the soft scratching of fabric as she picked at a loose thread on her glove.

A gentle knock on the door announced her departure. With a small, forced smile, Ann walked arm in arm with King Sutherland, who would present her to the guests. She wished he were Anne.

***

Eliza expected Ser Lister to hide her in the barn with the horses and Ser Tiny, who was supposed to be there, but never was. At least, he happened to be gone every time she snuck in to check. 

Instead, she got to find out how clothes were made. Real ones, not shoddily knit sweaters and patches for worn-out clothes, but massive swathes of fabric cut and sewn by trained hands, shaped for the body that would wear it. Ser Lister made sure to tell her how much of an honor it was to get fitted by the royal tailor, especially alongside the Prince and Princess’s children. There was an extra bite to her tone of “don’t be rude, embarrassing, or do anything wrong whatsoever.”

Well. She said it more eloquently than that, but that was the gist.

Presently, Eliza couldn’t figure out why the other kids got so excited over something that hurt so much . The tailor pinned stiff, thick folds of cloth over her torso and under her armpits, sometimes pinching her skin or instructing her to contort her body. Twice he pricked the back of her knee, probably on purpose after she nearly kicked him. She bit back curses, but they turned to strained yowls in her throat. She never wanted real clothes ever again, if she could help it. No wonder Ser Lister dressed so simply.

And then to have Eliza choose whether to wear a coat or dress to the event! Eliza answered, “Both,” and the tailor raised his eyebrows. She got the sense that that may have classified as rude, embarrassing, or wrong. A coat could be worn over a dress—anyone with eyes would know that. It didn’t take a genius to put the two together. The tailor, however, scoffed at the idea, so Eliza settled for a dress; as a knight, she would wear either armor or a coat for the rest of her life. If Ser Lister refused to give her a sword, she supposed she might as well have fun .

The company during the ordeal was no better. Despite—apparently—being royalty, the children still had slime from their breakfast glinting off their chins and mouths and trapped between their sticky fingers. They were loud, mean, and didn’t look like any god had touched them with anything holy, much less the divine right to rule a kingdom. Eliza certainly wouldn’t touch them, if she were a god. 

Eliza returned to Ser Lister hours later, huffing. The knight was no longer in the king’s guard, but had the honor of sharing their quarters. As her squire, Eliza joined her. Unlike in Lidgate, the king’s guard had a separate set of stables here, where Eliza frequently stumbled upon a brooding Ser Lister on her way to check on Ser Tiny. Ser Lister never seemed to know what time it was or how long she'd been standing there. She always asked Eliza, like she was an oracle trapped in a child's body and could divine, on command, the time of day. Eliza simply told her what meal had happened most recently, or pointed out where the sun was (or wasn't) in the sky, and the knight always nodded like she understood.

“Wonderful timing. Take off my armor, will you?” Ser Lister said.

Eliza did as she commanded. She met Ser Lister with increased caution this past week, due to the knight’s sudden abruptness and abrasiveness. She would talk on her own terms, if she felt like it.

“How did you find the future princes and princess?” Ser Lister finally said.

Eliza grimaced, but managed to hold her tongue. Ser Lister would probably scold her for honestly, but she couldn’t think of a single nice thing to say. Carefully, she answered, “Um…sticky. And loud.”

A tight-lipped smile cut Ser Lister’s cheek for a moment. She laughed, very quietly, in a low chuckle that escaped through her nose. The knight could be relaxed, sometimes, when no one else was around. Eliza liked those moments.

“I can’t tell you how many of those snots I was asked to take as a squire. You’d be surprised at how many loud, sticky kids grow into entitled adults that think they earned a knighthood—or any title—they did nothing for. You’ll unseat their father in a tourney before they learn how to properly ride a horse,” Ser Lister informed her.

Eliza’s chest puffed with pride. She had learned to stop asking when she would get to ride a horse, or wield a real sword and shield, because the answer was always the same—when she was bigger. For now, her fingers picked the straps of Ser Lister’s armor free, and she carried the heavy steel pieces to the straw with as much ease as she could muster.

Catching her breath between the chest plate and backplate, Eliza leaned on a beam of one of the empty stables. When Ser Lister turned to look, Eliza pretended to ponder a question, until one popped in her head.

“Do you think the gods really choose them to rule? Handpick them, I mean. Like it’s their destiny.”

“When you take your oath, you will feel the presence of the gods surround you. They witness moments like that, set their weight behind them. Ann once told me the same sort of thing happened to her, when she ascended the throne. But when it was stolen, she said it went away,” Ser Lister said. She frowned, meaning she was thinking. 

Eliza would never tell her so, but she loved the way Ser Lister called the queen “Ann.” The knight was absurdly formal, did everything by the book, and taught Eliza to do the same, yet referred to her majesty as “Ann,” even when it was improper to do so. There was a kind of weight to that. A sense Ser Lister really loved her, even in something as small as speaking her name.

Still, there was the matter of the dribbling royalty to contend with. 

“So…yes?” Eliza guessed. She hadn’t really followed what the knight had said. “And her majesty was a random stroke of luck?”

Her encounter with the royal children had truly shaken her. It was easy to love the queen, and believe that she deserved to rule, because she was sweet and kind. But what if someone horrible ascended the throne, and they couldn’t be vilified by theft, like the king that stole Queen Ann’s throne? If she served in the kingsguard and swore an oath to protect a corrupt ruler, there was nothing she could do. Was there?

“You have quite a bit of affection for her majesty, don’t you?” Ser Lister accused. Eliza was afraid until she turned to see her grinning.

“No, you do,” she said, furrowing her eyebrows in a sharp V. “You’re ignoring my question.”

“You’re ignoring mine.”

“I asked mine first !”

“ I am the knight, and you are the squire,” Ser Lister reminded her, cackling with mirth. “I’ll answer your question. After you answer mine.”

“Ugh!” Eliza could have kicked the nearest thing to her, if it wasn’t Ser Lister’s stupid smiling face. She settled for covering her face with her hands and sighing dramatically. “She’s just pretty . And the kindest person I’ve ever met. I want to die, and I want her to tie my noose. I don’t want to serve a single other king or queen than her.”

Ser Lister’s smile faded. She looked past Eliza, like she could suddenly see far away. She nodded and said, “I feel the same.”

“I think I love her,” Eliza declared. Realizing what she said, she added, “Not—not like you do, obviously! I just mean—she’s nice, and she smells nice, and I feel safe. Different than you. Are you going to marry her? I think you should.”

“Unfortunately, you’ve run out of questions for the day. Before you complain—that one doesn’t have an answer, anyway. Not right now,” Ser Lister lamented. “But I will answer your first question. I think we misconstrue what it means to have a divine right to rule. I am a knight born commoner, like you. The gods bestow nothing upon us until we demand it from them. All this time with Ann—her majesty—has made me suspect queens and kings work the same way.”

“So the traitor is…blessed by the gods, too? Since he took what he wanted?”

“Mmm, no. I haven’t explained it well. I think it is more like the relationship between knight and squire. Following me around and demanding that I take you as my squire doesn’t give you that role. You prove yourself to me. I give you training and tests. Eventually, you fill your role. It’s like that, I think.”

“So the traitor…is a test for her majesty?”

Ser Lister nodded. “Nearly everything is. Perhaps that’s why you feel kinship with her,” she suggested gently. “You’re being tested. You’re growing into yourselves.”

Eliza bit back a laugh. She didn’t quite believe that; Queen Ann was old. She wasn’t growing into her own body. Her crown fit her head—she could wield the tools of her station. Eliza could use the sword and become a knight if she could just lift the damn thing. Meanwhile, Queen Ann had everything she needed. At some point, growing stopped, and you were the thing you were meant to be. If that wasn’t true, then what was the point of trying to be anything at all?

“Of course, all of that depends on whether you believe the gods manipulate fate. Perhaps it’s all random, the royals have convinced themselves there is a divine right to rule anything , and the gods pick off members of the royal family they don’t like, or that the world has outgrown,” Ser Lister suggested. “We’ll never know for sure, of course. Maybe there are no gods at all, and all there is is magic. Maybe there isn't even magic, and all there is is—oh, I don't know. Something we don't have a name for.”

Eliza bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted salt. She didn’t mean for the question to get this serious. Ser Lister was in a weird mood.

“What if they aren’t, then? Or—I mean—what if they are , and I don’t like them? If we don’t know, and we can never know, how do you choose anything?” Eliza stuttered.

“Sometimes, what’s real doesn’t matter. What makes something random, and what makes something fate? The difference is what you believe,” Ser Lister said. 

“What do you believe?”

“I don’t know.”

The defeat in Ser Lister’s voice terrified Eliza; she’d never seen the knight like this before. Without her armor, there was no grandness, extravagance, or strength to mask the dead look in her eyes. Eliza hated the way she curled in on herself in the chair, head in her hands. The grime of the day casted shadows where dirt snuck in between the plates—lines and dots highlighting her weaknesses, laid bare like new, black scars all over her skin.

Eliza hated it. It repulsed her. It scared her. She needed to fix it. She dared to tug Ser Lister’s arm, and called to her urgently, like she was far away or underwater.

“Ser Lister, you need a bath.”

Chapter Text

The tranquility of a library was one of the few things that could set Anne’s mind straight, and it had been years since the last time she set foot in one. She missed the quiet, the adventure, and the solitude of a place filled from floor to ceiling with texts older than any living person. There was something special about holding a scroll of parchment or shoddily sewn book that no one else had touched for decades. A library was discovery, and knowledge, and its gentle peace like home. 

However, the Sutherland Royal Library was a far cry from Lidgate’s, if only in atmosphere; it bustled with patrons, who stalked each corner of the library with frustrating frequency. Not a single fleck of dust graced the lip of even the most neglected shelf. Sunlight refracted by snow lit everything through massive windows, wiping the library clean of dusky corners and rendering the oil lantern in her hands useless. Anne plucked a stack of books from the shelves and returned to her quarters, but set them aside, too disgusted by her experience to read. 

Her squire found her sulking in the barn, of course. The girl had an annoying ability to find Anne wherever she hid, especially if Anne didn’t want to be bothered. She found Anne in a foul mood. Anne wouldn’t have blamed the girl if she’d tried to escape Anne’s sourness, but the brave little thing stayed, chattering away as if everything was normal. Eliza couldn’t have known that the library was rubbish, the royalty possessed the audacity to try to marry her off like cattle, and that Ann had—she had—

Anne wore it all so plainly. She was utterly mortified that Eliza noticed. When the squire suggested a bath, Anne went along with the idea. 

Eliza rinsed the soap from her hair with a bucket of scalding water. Anne winced—she certainly wasn’t a perfect squire, and had ample room for improvement in the handmaid-like tasks, but she tried her best nonetheless. Instead of correcting her—likely overly harshly, considering Anne’s current state—Anne simply curled her lip in a semblance of a smile and dismissed her. In an effort to salvage relaxation from the hot bath, Anne reached for one of the books, balanced it on the edge of the narrow tub, and read.

How did truth—and, in a similar vein, knowledge—become so cold? From where comes the image of the stony-faced warrior who wields truth like a weapon? Or the grim scholar who bears the burden of knowing? They are fallacies. Truth is not a sword, nor a book. It is malleable and fist-sized. A piece belongs to each of us. It is light refracted through many lenses; it is what we see as much as what we do not. If cultivated, it is the seed of future and transformation—that is, truth is not stated, it is sown. That practice, more than anything, is how one can begin to understand—

Anne slapped the book closed. The beginning of a headache prickled just above her eyebrow. Gritting her teeth, Anne grabbed the tough, still-soapy sponge from the floor to finish Eliza’s job, scrubbing dirt and sweat from the day’s training off her arms and legs. The clear water turned a murky yellow and unveiled her oldest scar—a thick pink line from her kneecap to her ankle—her signal that she was clean. 

Anne traced the length of it with her finger. She often forgot about it. It was a childhood injury, a result of stupidity and selfishness, and a lesson she struggled to swallow, even now. 

Sam had gifted her a horse before his first summer away. It was a mustang—a friend of a friend caught it, and her brother paid nearly every piece of gold in their family’s possession for it. The beast was an investment for the family, he’d said, and Anne would learn to ride it. If she could manage that, she could manage anything—especially a household.

The beast—who Anne had stupidly called “Pony”—was skittish and aggressive. It threw her off faster than she could climb back on. At the time, Anne attributed the behavior to a rejection of its awful name, but now she knew better; it rejected her because it didn’t like to be controlled. She was too firm, clung on too tightly, and dug her heels in too much. Even when she managed to stay on, Pony didn’t trust her, and she didn’t trust him. 

Anne got the scar in broad daylight while she and Pony took a shortcut home through the long grass. Pony stopped fifty feet out from the trail, shuffling nervously. Anne knew him well enough by then to tell that something was wrong. Anne—stupidly—forced him forward. She should have trusted him. A big cat crouched, waiting in the grass, and lunged when they came within reach. Pony bolted, but not before one of the claws sank into Anne’s leg, leaving her trousers in tatters and coating her skin in shiny, gleaming red.

Decades later, the puckered line remained tattooed into her flesh. Sometimes she forgot about it. She had plenty of scars she didn’t remember getting—nicks and scrapes from bouts, her time in the army, or from an unruly housecat, among other things. Now, however, the memory of this one hit her over and over, like lapping waves. 

Anne stared at it, and a phantom pain bit at the mark. The sensation was a memory of a memory, a pinprick of pain that forced Anne to squeeze her eyes shut in anticipation, but the tug and snap of ripping flesh never came. The more she tried to control it, the more ferocious and slippery the memory—both her stupidity and the sharp, breathtaking, adrenaline-numbed pain—became.

Anne’s own body betrayed her with truths she’d said but didn’t mean. She had to let Ann choose. She had to. This was not an enemy she could face with her sword. There was no strongarming, no pleading, no way for Anne to predict or control the outcome of the evening. Just as Mariana once chose, Ann would too, and all Anne could do was wait. 

How did she put herself in the same position twice ? The first time was an accident; the second proved her a fool. Anne could strategize armies in a game of life and death, she could maneuver political allies and foes in a cruel dance, but when it came to women, Anne backed herself into a corner, as helpless as a pinned butterfly.

***

The ball was pretty and extravagant, as far as Ann could gather through the blur of white and gold decoration. Too many people came for it to be a reasonable affair, as far as her current quest was concerned—finding Anne in the sea of dresses, fancy coats, tight-lipped smiles, and under the buzz of pointless conversations she heard but couldn’t parse out was impossible. The armored guard typically stuck out like a sore thumb, reminding one that they were present, but her sweet knight wasn’t among them. 

“Looking for someone?” asked Ser Philbury, her current partner, smiling brightly.

“No,” Ann replied quickly, flashing a sheepish smile. “Just admiring the decoration.”

“It’s wonderful—and fate, don’t you think, that we got the first dance of the evening? I don’t envy my competition that they have to follow that show,” he said. 

“Oh—yes, I imagine that might feel very difficult,” Ann said.

She was half listening. When Prince Sutherland proposed that Ann spend a portion of the evening with each suitor, Ann didn’t expect her thirty minutes with Ser Philbury to feel like a decade. He was utterly insufferable. This was in large part thanks to Anne, who went on about his flaws in earnest the week before, and made the way he tried to make up for his flaws by bragging painfully obvious. She could only hope he was the worst of them, and she could salvage even a morsel of enjoyment from her first ball in years.

Ann knew any hope she had was in vain; none of her suitors were Anne. Prince Sutherland would encourage her to make a decision by the end of the evening so their alliance—and his power over her—could be solidified. Her stomach already twisted itself into knots that might never come undone. 

Ser Philbury’s voice jolted her out of thought. He said, “Do you not love the weather here? How white it is, how quiet, how snowed-in?”

“Um, sure,” Ann said.

“Of course, I myself have witnessed how horrifying the cold can be. Nights that never end, where the cold consumes you and all you wish for is that it doesn’t reach your heart—ah, but I don’t want to scare you, your majesty. My career in the Sutherland army is much more...influential now.”

A lifetime at court trained Ann to respond amicably on reflex, but the corners of her lips wavered; Ann couldn’t help but feel like he was always interrupting something, only to tell her something trivial or talk about himself. She wished she could dismiss her training and ignore him. If she did, maybe he might stop talking.

“I’m sure it is,” Ann said, distracted.

“I only tell this to you so you know that you can expect strong children. My mother prepared me for a successful career in the army; my lips barely touched her breast before my first bite of meat. I grew up almost entirely on whale meat and fat,” he finished with a hearty laugh. 

A flicker of dark green at the left entrance of the ball caught Ann’s attention. Anne and Catherine walked arm in arm from the banquet hall, Cath holding a half-eaten powdered cake in her free hand, and Anne mid-laugh. Ann’s cheeks burned with jealousy. Time seemed to slow as she watched, and even Ser Philbury’s voice faded into the background. Anne whispered something into Cath’s ear, and her friend—former friend, evidently—covered her mouth in a coy gasp. 

The funny thing was, Catherine never even liked Anne. Even when they were kids, and Anne was the first strapping young knight sworn to the kingsguard in a long while, Cath didn’t even bat an eye at her. She disapproved of Anne every chance she got. By all accounts, she should detest this forced union, much less enjoy herself . Ann could have launched herself at the girl and ripped her into a thousand pieces. In that moment, her rage could have slayed a dragon with bare hands. 

And Anne. Her sweet knight spent the last week bitter and reserved, struggling with a helplessness she rarely endured, yet she seemed so jovial and relaxed. Had she already surrendered to the possibility of marrying Catherine?

Worst of all, Anne dared to attend the ball wearing the clothes of a goddess and looking far more resplendent. Stiff lines in her coat accentuated her broad shoulders, and the deep forest green washed out the pale blue-grey clothing of the women and men around her. Her striking figure filled the entire ballroom with new vibrancy; in comparison, everyone else seemed as limp and lifeless as paper dolls. Ann gazed at her clothes, tight-lipped smirk, and the gleaming weapon at her hip, wishing the hand in Anne’s was hers instead of Cath's.

Suddenly, Ann realized someone was talking to her. Insistently. 

“I’m sorry?” Ann snapped, surfacing. 

Ser Philbury actually flinched. “Erm, sorry, your majesty. I was wondering if you were all right, if I should bring you a drink..?”

“Water would be nice,” Ann said, all but waving him away.

When Ann peered back into the crowd, Anne had disappeared, swallowed by the sea of bodies on the dance floor. 

***

When Catherine had first imagined the ball, she saw herself drinking a little more than usual and flitting between handsome, grinning princes, growing exhausted from dancing as the night wore on. Not that she expected that, obviously—she wasn’t naive. But she did want a little freedom, a little relaxation, and just enough attention to keep her head above water in an Ann-centered universe. 

No, Catherine reprimanded herself. None of this was Ann’s fault; in fact, it was the product of Ann’s misfortune. No one had expected Ann to inherit the throne, least of all herself. She ascended through compounded grief and naivete. Even Catherine’s life changed with the death of Ann’s brother; she was going to marry him, and likely be a queen. Now, however, Catherine didn’t envy Ann’s position or circumstance. But, gods, she missed their friendship. Was it unfair to resent her for that?

Maybe. But every reminder still soured her. 

Catherine frowned, tutting Ser Lister’s appearance for the upteenth time that evening. Between her unkempt hair, muddy boots, ferocious appetite, stomping walk, and—ugh, everything else, she was hardly a picture of romance. For years, Ser Lister was under the wings of the late King or Ann, who suffered her unpolished appearance for the sake of their relationship. Catherine, however, was in a position to say something—something that might do the knight some good. It was possible no one had even told her.

“That’s a big sword to bring to such a formal event,” Catherine reprimanded stiffly.

Ser Lister’s lip curled. “I have big hands. Anything else might snap between my fingers, should we be unlucky enough that I have to use it.”

Without waiting for a reply—she was so rude—Ser Lister tugged her arm, pulling her out of the banquet hall and into the next room like a dog on a leash. The evening hadn’t started off so poorly. Ser Lister could be a good company for misery; they had traded humorous remarks about their own terrible situation and snickered at the expense of others with ease. Their game started to make Catherine feel better about it all, until it didn’t: the knight couldn’t be bothered to look anywhere but at Ann.

Which made sense, but still felt terrible. Catherine was the unluckiest noble in the world; too powerless for her existence to have any real meaning or her words to carry weight, but important enough that her hand in marriage had interest to the royals, moving her around like a pawn in a chess match. At least Catherine had been friends with the late crown prince. She couldn’t even hold Ser Lister’s attention for a moment. The least Ser Lister could do was have a conversation with her.

Catherine took a deep breath. “You know, Ann and I used to—”

“Hmm?” Ser Lister said, looking at her for the first time in ten minutes. 

Catherine bit back her irritation. She continued, “—used to talk about you. When we were kids, and you were just starting.”

Ser Lister grinned. That was something Catherine always disliked about her—her arrogance. Knights were supposed to be romantic, tender, and humble, and Ser Lister inflated her own ego every chance she got. How her soft, sweet friend became enchanted by someone so abrasive was an absolute mystery to her. 

“Oh yeah? And what did you talk about?”

“Nothing. Just—Ann has always liked you. Despite—ugh, nevermind.”

“Despite…?” the knight egged her on.

Ugh, gods. Catherine saw it now; Ser Lister had the kindest eyes. They crinkled at the corners, while her cheek wrinkled from the softest smile. Their color was a kind of golden brown, or deep, rich muddy color, flecked with warm reddish bits and goldish bits, and they had a depth that—

“Despite?” Ser Lister said again, furrowing her brow.

Despite your brutish ego , sat on the tip of Catherine’s tongue, but now she couldn’t bring herself to say it. 

“Despite the unlikelihood of it all,” she said instead.

“Hmm,” Ser Lister grunted, pursing her lips. “More unlikely than we thought, I guess.”

The playfulness in Ser Lister’s tone was gone. Catherine got a sick feeling in her stomach, like she’d said the worse thing. She tried her best to meet fate chin-up, and was rewarded, over and over, with spite from the gods. 

“You love her,” Catherine observed. “And you daren’t love anyone else after?”

Until this moment, Catherine hardly believed Ser Lister had a romantic bone in her body. But her coldness wasn’t from a lack of romance, just a fear of it. What was it like to love someone, but watch them choose something else—someone else, even—instead of you? Catherine didn’t know. But she could imagine. Her heart hurt for the knight.

“I could care for you,” Ser Lister said gently. “That’s what I can promise. They’re marrying you to a husk of a person. I’m sorry.”

She smiled, like she was telling a joke. Catherine didn’t laugh.

***

Ann’s final suitor of the evening exhausted her more than the others combined.

They might have been friends, if not for the situation they found themselves in. Lady Craine looked like Ann always dreamed of looking; her dress sparkled when she walked, she painted intricate golden patterns on her nails, and knew how to paint her face so her natural blush radiated through. Ann wanted to be her, not kiss her, and their similarities clashed in the worst way.

Lady Craine tugged Ann to the dance floor. While the musicians took a breath before the next song, they organized themselves in the mess of fumbling hands and brushing elbows.

Lady Craine smiled shyly. She was definitely a cute thing, and used to getting what she wanted with that smile. Ann was rarely the recipient of those smiles. She had no idea what she was supposed to do.

Ann laughed awkwardly. “Um, what’s happening? Your, er, hands should be—”

Lady Craine swallowed. “I, um, figured you’d lead, being a queen and all…”

“Oh! Well, I suppose, if that’s—“

“I don’t really—I’ve never done—“

“I—I haven’t either, but I—“

“This isn’t going well, is it?” Lady Craine said softly. “Oh, I knew I’d mess something up. I—I can lead, if you want. I should have said that before, but I—“ her blush deepened . “I don’t want to look like a fool in front of you.”

“We don’t have to dance,” Ann said.

The tension dissipated instantly. Lady Craine sighed.

“We—we don’t?”

“I’m the queen, aren’t I? Who’s going to say no to me?” Ann said, drawing on her single sip of bravado for the night. 

The statement was a bit rich, if Lady Craine could see past it. In the first fifteen minutes of their acquaintance, however, Ann had an inkling that the girl’s lack of self-confidence took up most of her attention. Ann figured the illusion of power was better than nothing at all.

Lady Craine giggled. It really was a rush, making someone laugh. She’d have to laugh harder at Anne’s dreadful jokes in the future. 

She said, “That’s a relief. I feel a bit like an impostor, to be honest. My family is, you know—well, we don’t have a history of wealth, or nobility, or—or any of those things. I hardly know if this dress is appropriate.”

Ann saw so much of herself in the young noble. Watching the way Lady Craine picked at her dress, bit the inside of her cheek, and looked at the floor during her admission was like looking into a mirror displaced in time. Where had that young, foolish, pitiful Ann gone? Had the world swallowed her, or stripped her away? Was she still there, buried somewhere, hidden beneath layers of something far more insidious? 

No, Ann realized. She was the same. All of this—all of the turmoil she endured hadn’t changed her much at all; when push came to shove, that Ann would have surrendered Ser Lister out of fear. And this Ann, right this moment, would, too—she was surrendering her.

The realization revolted her. Wasn’t Ann supposed to be stronger than this? Enduring the evils of an evil world was supposed to harden her to it all, not keep her soft. Ann hated the way she was. Trusting in the best intentions of others, loving Anne, choosing to do the right thing—for her kingdom, for her family, herself, and even Anne—was so stupid. She could steel herself for what everyone wanted and just go through with it all. Her fear made it harder. Her softness for Anne prolonged their pain. Nothing felt right .

Lady Craine’s familiar softness—her weakness—filled Ann with disgust. Revulsion twisted her stomach, and that didn’t feel right either. Pity quickly replaced it. Ann patted her cheek.

“Your dress is beautiful. When I saw it, I thought—’oh, I wish I was wearing that instead!’” Ann assured her. She grinned as genuinely as she could muster. 

“Thank you,” Lady Craine said, blushing again. “Could we—um, do you want to sit down?”

“Yes,” Ann agreed. 

She scanned the long tables at the front of the room. Elizabeth was there, sipping a glass of champagne and encouraging her kids to dance at the edge of the floor. Ann led the noblewoman there with a look. Lady Craine tried to hold her hand, but Ann flinched away.

“I, um, I’m going to find my father,” Lady Craine said quickly.

“If that’s what you want,” Ann said, not unkindly.

Ann took the seat next to Elizabeth, releasing a long, tired groan.

“Well? How was it?” Elizabeth said. The wine flushed her cheeks.

“Perfect,” Ann said into her hands. “I wish I were dead.”

Elizabeth patted her arm. She let Ann rest for a few minutes before she whispered, “We’re about to have a visitor, dear. You’ll want to look awake for this one.”

Ann bit back the urge to turn into a feral cat with great restraint. The night had squeezed every drop of life her body possessed, and any remnants left her in gentle, curling ribbons, like smoke. She could barely open her eyes. Maybe Prince Sutherland would take those next, if he felt kind enough.

The sight of Anne poured life back into her body. Her handsome face and tender smile warmed her more deeply than the sun. 

“Your majesty,” Anne murmured, offering her hand. “I hate to intrude, but would you honor me with a dance?”

Ann allowed herself to feel joy for the first time that evening. Anne was dashing and bold and brave, and everything else Ann wasn’t.  She took Anne’s hand, and wished she could curl up and sleep in her palm, under the cage of her fingers. Her hand was calloused, peppered with tiny white scars, and warm, so different from the soft and manicured hands she’d held all night. Anne’s rough fingertips against her palm felt like home.

“Of course,” Ann replied breathlessly.

“Ann, don’t you think—” Elizabeth began, but Anne whisked her away before she finished speaking.

Ann fought the instinct to cling to Anne and never let go. Though only a few people glanced as they passed, every eye in the room was upon them. Prince Sutherland had perfectly timed Ann’s suitors such that she wouldn’t have time to dance with anyone else. This dance was stolen. Unexpected. Ann hummed with excitement from the transgression.

“Oh, I’ve missed you. I thought you were upset with me. And that you—that you already decided to marry Cath,” Ann whispered, tears welling in her eyes at the thought.

“Me? Marry Catherine? I think if I kissed her, she’d wither into dust on the spot from the horror.”

Ann choked on a laugh. 

“It’s so obvious, isn’t it? Us? Dancing?” Ann whispered. A blush glowed on her cheeks as she noticed more people turning to watch them.

“And?” Anne dared.

“And—it’s a bit naughty, right? I mean, I’m sure people have an idea , but to parade it in the open—but you’ve always been bold,” Ann blathered, trying to piece out what she thought, how she felt, how she should act .

“I’m well aware that this is an official affair,” Anne murmured. No one else could hear them. “You must choose your suitor at the end. I don’t know what’s going on in your brain—that book you lent me years ago has always failed me as a guide to you, you know—but I trust you to make the choice that is best for you—best for us . I won’t pressure you, or give you an ultimatum. I simply want to remind you that I am a choice.”

“B-but—I—"

“I love you,” Anne said solemnly. “I’ve done my pleading, to you and the gods. I can’t make you stay, and I won’t stand for resentment.”

They danced with their cheeks pressed together. Anne’s hand splayed across the small of her back, holding her close, and the other held Ann’s own aloft, gentle and unobtrusive. A wisp of gray-and-brown hair tickled her nose. Ann nearly kissed her at the end of the song out of habit, but her lover tilted her head the smallest amount, pulling away.

Ann’s heart ached from the gesture. If her right to rule was truly divine—a mark of the gods upon her soul—and this sacrifice, in wake of all others, mined her soul glimmer by glimmer each day she continued on without her beloved, then what would happen when nothing was left? She would be a ruler with no soul. A mortal conduit for divinity to humankind with no purpose, left to a fate more useless than being dead. Betraying her very soul was a betrayal to the gods themselves, and scorn for the station they entrusted to her. 

Where her family saw love and compassion clouding her judgement, Ann saw with perfect clarity that her choice was right. Betrayal to the Sutherlands was less deadly than that to her very soul—the gods themselves—and with the strength of conviction, she would forge a path to the throne eventually. There was no other option the gods would accept. Ann loved her.

“I love you too,” Ann said. 

She hoped Anne heard her conviction, and understood it as a promise. Her poor knight was steeling herself for rejection, and Ann was helpless to convince her not to—as much as she tried otherwise, Anne trusted actions, not words. 

“Prince Sutherland is glancing angrily in our general direction,” Anne murmured. “Oh—now he’s flagging a servant. I think you’re being summoned.”

“Can’t we go somewhere and hide?” Ann joked.

Anne smiled grimly. She didn’t even force a laugh. Ann flushed, embarrassed—of course she shouldn’t be bringing levity into a situation like this. From Anne’s perspective, Ann was about to deliver her death sentence. Her sweet knight. All Ann wanted was to take her pain away.

When the servant came to collect Ann, she went with them. Her family and the Sutherlands stood assembled around the table. At one end, her Aunt Ann nibbled on a cheese plate, and at the other, the kids played hide-and-seek under the table. Ann tried to join Elizabeth sitting nearest them, but Prince Sutherland intercepted her.

“Who is your choice for the final dance, Ann? This doesn’t have to be your official choice, of course, but it is a serious—”

“Ser Lister,” Ann blurted. Her cheeks tinged pink at her own excitability. “...is my choice.”

It was better to announce her decision to Prince Sutherland at the ball, where witnesses included not only her own family, but allies and enemies to both their kingdoms, who would take interest if the prince made a scene. Ann hoped it might encourage him to be civil. 

Indeed, Prince Sutherland snapped to face her with grit teeth. His eyes flickered from her to Anne—who, now dancing with Catherine, wore a forced grin on her face—and then to Elizabeth, as if trying to decide whether Ann was making an off-color joke and playing him for a fool. Ann braced herself.

“No,” he finally managed. 

“Um, yes, actually,” Ann said. 

“Don’t be petulant. You’ll have much more time than a single ball to decide, but it will look poorly to not choose at least one of the suitors. You’ll embarrass us all,” he said in a restrained whisper. 

Ann repeated, “Ser Lister is my choice. Your offer was kind and fair, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.  

“Excuse me, ‘decline?’ You can’t just—”

“What’s going on?” her Aunt Ann interrupted, wandering over to stand between them. She looked directly at Ann. “What have you done?”

Ann realized she had curled her hands into fists. She relaxed them, and plucked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter to hold something. It didn’t work; her hands trembled, and the drink sloshed onto the back of her hand. 

Ann explained as firmly as she could, “I was just telling Prince Sutherland that I will dance with Ser Lister to close the ball, and announce our betrothal officially in the morning. The suitors—and this alliance—aren’t right for our kingdom, and in fact I feel they are unneeded to continue the friendship between our families.”

“No,” Aunt Ann declared, shaking her head. “No.”

“Yes,” Ann said. “We are already allies by marriage. They aren’t owed another.”

“This is the single most foolish thing you’ve ever done,” Aunt Ann whispered frantically. “Ser Lister isn’t right for you. She has no lineage. She’s common. Whether you like it or not, Ann—and we all know you don’t, you make it obvious—you’re a queen. It’s simply not possible. An insult to the station.”

“I am queen of nothing. I have no kingdom, no army, and no support, as Prince Sutherland loves to remind me. You’ve been advising me to marry the daughter of a mid-rank politician, for gods’ sake! Moreover, I’ve permission from the gods to marry Ser Lister. It’s done. My decision is made.”

“Ugh, gods, I thought we were done with all that ridiculousness. And now, when we need you to have sense, more visions…”

“I haven’t been having visions,” Ann said, fighting to keep her tone even. “If I’m a queen, then I serve the gods. Serving the gods d-demands honesty. A sense of self. Of wholeness. I love Ser Lister—Anne. To betray her by marrying anyone else —even out of political necessity—would break me apart. If I could justify that, I could justify the worst of things, and that alone would insult the true spirit of my station. I won’t do it. Either I dance with her and marry her, or we’ll all swear fealty to Rawson instead, and surrender the entire legacy of our lineage to a traitor.”

“This is unforgivable,” Aunt Ann said coldly. “It’s shameful, holding your family hostage like this, when all we’ve ever done, and asked you to do, is what’s best for the crown.”

“You would follow your moral compass if it pointed you off the edge of a mountain,” William remarked bitterly.

“I would,” Ann said. 

“If you would surrender the crown for love, you would justify surrendering it for selfishness of any sort,” Aunt Ann mocked.

“We don’t serve the crown. We serve the gods, who have entrusted us with the health and safety of the people of Lidgate,” Ann reminded her. “I live by the teachings of the gods, Aunt. Do you?”

“The gods can’t give you an army or a kingdom. I can. I’ll forgive this transgression once, but not again. I’m being generous,” Prince Sutherland informed her. 

Ann knew she was about to make an enemy. Whether or not it was right for Prince Sutherland to betray the terms of his own marriage to her sister—terms of friendship and allyship between their kingdoms—was moot to his perception of that agreement. She had no power to enforce it, and he knew it. But she had to believe there were other options.

In the most queenly voice Ann could muster, she said, “I hope you will honor the friendship your own marriage fostered between our kingdoms tonight, your grace, when I announce my betrothal to Ser Lister. She is my choice, not out of spite for you or your family, but out of love for her and humility to the gods.”

The longer she spoke in a calm, measured tone, the redder Prince Sutherland’s face became. Ann soon thanked the gods that she had chosen to defy him in so public a setting; while Prince Sutherland’s teeth grit with the force of the words he was holding back, Elizabeth swallowed an entire glass of wine in one gulp, Aunt Ann whispered heatedly to herself, and William stabbed an olive with a toothpick. Ann would get an earful later, but the crowds kept them at bay for now.

Whatever rage and awfulness Ann would have to endure the next few days was worth Anne’s expression when the ballroom floor cleared and Ann took her hand. Ann met her betrothed’s dumbfounded look with a smile, drawing her out from the crowd and to the center of the room. Anne’s confusion was palpable, but she followed Ann’s lead, taking her waist and holding her hand aloft. The music started, and Ann’s heart raced.

The fact that Anne didn’t know the dance made her performance all the more impressive. Anne wasn’t a royal, and never participated in balls during her time in the kingsguard. She was, however, a soldier—familiar with reading bodies and adept at anticipating movements. Her sweet, lovely knight knew that dance was about listening, about being reactive. She responded to the gentle turns of Ann’s body, taking her waist, lifting her, twisting her out again—they hardly needed music, just each other, and the promise of a kiss at the end.

“You’ll marry me, then?” Anne said when the song ended and others joined them on the ballroom floor. “Are you sure? What about Prince Sutherland? The army? Your family? The kingdom?”

Ann cupped her cheek. Her thumb gently stroked Anne’s mouth until she closed her lips to kiss it. 

“For those things, we need the gods on our side. For that, we need an oath—one our souls can commit to. We were bound to each other by oath before, but it wasn’t right. This will be. It already is,” Ann said, gazing tenderly up at her.

“No one has ever done this. I’m of common birth. I have no wealth, no legacy, nothing to offer you except my sword,” Anne reminded her.

“Oh? And what am I offering to you that’s more valuable? I am a queen with no kingdom. The legacy of my family is tainted by murder and treason. When I do retake my kingdom, I’ll find half of it was stolen through senseless conquest. I’ll have to give it back. Wealth and legacy are laughable compared to love and trust. That’s all I need from you,” Ann countered. Her grin grew as she spoke.

Anne gathered her in her arms and kissed her. Ann melted into her, dizzy with the pressure of Anne’s palm on her back. Their lips pressed together, warm, sticky, wet, as magical as the very first time. 

It felt like their first kiss, and maybe it was, in a sense. The touch of Anne’s lips released a world of weight from her shoulders. Soon, every struggle was theirs to bear together . Anne would be by her side, instead of in the background, or hidden behind lock and key. Allowing herself to entertain the thought was freeing. For the first time, it felt real .

In front of her family, the onlooking crowd, and the gods, Ann kissed her again, just to be sure.

Chapter Text

Anne didn’t like chaos, as a rule. Even idle gossip rolled her eyes, and any excitement that interrupted her routine turned her stomach. However, she revelled in the madness Ann’s announcement sparked in the royal household. Emotions flared, servants sprinted from room to room to avoid a tongue-lashing from on-edge nobles, and Anne walked through the proverbial flames, utterly amused by the display. 

“You,” Anne called to a servant passing by. The servant looked up at her with wide eyes. “Where’s the queen?”

Anne was purposefully vague. The tension in the castle was so thick everyone’s heads seemed clouded by it. Even clear, basic questions seemed to catch servants off guard. Anne’s heavy footfalls scattered them like mice.

“Um, I—uh—she’s  in the throne ro—I mean, sorry, Ser. Which queen?”

Oh, good. Finally, a servant with their head on straight. 

“The cute one,” Anne answered cheekily. “With the bright smile, and the tiniest gleam in her eye.”

The servant blushed. Anne’s smile widened; the reaction of a servant was telling of their master. That this girl was so scandalized indicated the royal family’s outrage could be multiplied by a thousand. Anne could hardly contain her mirth, and laughed. 

“She’s, um, in the sitting room nearest the dining hall, I think,” the servant said. 

Anne nodded curtly in lieu of a thank-you. The emotions in the castle were a confused amalgam of repulsion, fear, and excitement-tainted-by-guilt. The royal family’s dramatic reaction was funny on the surface, but reminded Anne deep down of the same cowardice that had turned Mariana against her.

The thought wormed its way into her head now and again; Ann’s bravery was fleeting in the past. Would she falter, now that things got tough again? She could take it all back, if she wanted.

No. Anne wouldn’t let anxiety rob her of her joy before it even started. The Sutherland’s and Ann’s family were foolish and limited by pointless tradition—it was funny to watch them struggle to accept Ann’s decision. Humorous, and nothing else.

Just outside the room, Anne paused. Gentle voices and more than a little laughing filtered into the hallway. Anne grimaced; she liked Elizabeth, but Ann’s sister could be hard to get rid of, especially when she’s had a bit to drink—or maybe Ann’s company was Catherine, which would lead to a far more awkward conversation. Why couldn’t Ann just be alone?

When Anne opened the door, the chatter stopped, and Ann and Eliza turned to look at her, the latter quite annoyed.

“Erm, hello. What’s going on?” Anne said, looking between the two of them. “Why do I feel like this is about me?”

“Sweetheart, don’t look so upset ,” Ann teased.

“We’re talking about the wedding, not you. Well, you too, I guess,” Eliza admitted, narrowing her eyes at Anne over the back of her chair. 

“I’m not ‘upset.’ And what are you doing here, besides interrupting the queen? You should be in the stables, or trying to find Tiny.”

“I’ll have you know that you’re the one interrupting our meeting,” Eliza said.

“We’re discussing some very serious matters. I wanted her opinion,” Ann confirmed, grinning. “For example, we’re discussing your title.”

“‘Queen Consort,’” Eliza informed Anne. “Not as flashy or powerful-sounding as it should be. ‘King’ sounds stupid, since you’re a girl. I think you should forego the title altogether and stick with ‘knight.’”

Eliza was far too comfortable speaking her mind around the queen. Like Tib , Anne thought, a wave of nausea washing through her. Gods, I have to stop this immediately .

“Firstly, this is the last time you ever refer to me as ‘girl,’” Anne scolded firmly. Applied to her, the word tasted foul. “And—‘Ser Anne Lister, Knight’ really sounds better to you than ‘Ser Anne Lister, Queen Consort?’”

“You hate ‘girl,’ but like ‘consort?’ Uh huh, okay,” Eliza countered, rolling her eyes. 

“One more word, and you’ll spend the entirety of the wedding throwing petals in front of the kids’ feet,” Anne threatened.

Eliza scoffed, glancing at Ann. Then a smile split her face. “But Ser Lister, we didn’t even tell you what your honorific will be. We’ve decided. There will be no more voting,” she said. 

“Why do I feel like I’m being tortured?” Anne said solemnly.

“I can’t pretend to claim ownership of the idea,” Ann said. She made a choking sound. Late enough to be embarrassing, Anne realized she was stifling a giggle. “In a week’s time, everyone will be calling you—“

“—Ser majesty,” Eliza finished, barely discernible in a fit of laughter.

“Right. I’ll go marry Catherine instead, then,” Anne said.

She pretended to walk back out of the door, but barely made it to the frame when Ann jumped up from her seat, weaving their fingers together and clinging to her arm. Ann rested her head on Anne’s shoulder, looking up at her with those clear baby blue eyes. Anne kissed her forehead gently.

“Don’t go,” she said, a hint of laughter twirling the words. 

“Okay, well, meeting’s over,” Anne said, looking pointedly at Eliza. “That’s a command, squire. Scram.”

The squire grimaced, cursed with the barest hints of what was about to happen, then covered her eyes with both hands and sprinted out of the door. 

When she was gone, Anne raised her eyebrow. She said, “I’m sorry she keeps bothering you. You can tell her to bugger off, you know. You should —she’s getting the idea that you like her.”

“I know! She’s nice, and it’s nice to have someone excited about the wedding, for once,” Ann admitted shyly.

Anne pitied her betrothed; the excitement of a wedding should be infectious. Her friends and sister should have tripped over themselves to decide her dress, the flowers, the decoration—instead, Ann and she pried permissions from the Sutherlands piece by tiny piece, like plucking sticky candy from a toddler’s fist.

Anne wanted to complain about all the fuss, but for Ann, she’d give anything for it. She hadn’t expected the Sutherlands—or even Ann’s family—to treat the occasion appropriately, but that didn’t infuriate her any less. 

“Isn’t Elizabeth excited?” Anne said.

“Oh, she is. But she has to be a bit reserved because—you know. It’s not her fault,” Ann said. She let out a deep sigh. “But, um, let’s not—can we not dwell on that? Unless you came to talk about the wedding? Or did Prince Sutherland say anything about the dukes…?”

Anne shook her head. The dukes still hadn’t responded to their queen. Not a single one, even to tell her “no.” They were cowards, the lot of them, and Anne wanted to personally oversee the execution of each one—or, at least, give them a good taste of her fist.

“Well, as it turns out, I’m here on official business as well,” Anne said, changing the subject entirely. She leaned back against the doorframe, easing Ann into the same relaxed energy.

It worked. Ann smiled. “Oh?”

“And it’s a bit dire, I’m afraid. We’re running out of time—we need to practice our wedding kiss.”

Ann threw her head back with laughter. She smoothed Anne’s shoulders with her palms, absently at first, then squeezed and rolled her muscles, breathing heavily.

Ann looked dreamily up at her. She murmured, “Do we? How would you kiss me now? Just so we have a starting place, I mean.”

Anne wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing her closer.

“You’re right. We can’t improve if we don’t have an example to measure against. Are you ready?”

Ann nodded, and closed her eyes. Anne took her soft chin between her thumb and index finger, tilting her face ever so slightly upward. She was beautiful. No painting could capture the pale yellow of the sun touching her cheeks, or the freckle just below her lip, or her shallow breathing, anticipating the touch of Anne’s lips to hers, already surrendering her breath before they even kissed. Art was lifeless in the presence of the muse, and that’s why Anne wasn’t an artist.

“What are you doing?” Ann giggled. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Savoring the moment,” Anne murmured. 

Anne brushed her lips over Ann’s soft cheek, then pressed their foreheads together. Their noses touched. Ann’s breath warmed her mouth. Warmth flourished from Anne’s stomach to her fingertips; Ann was here . Ann was hers . She allowed the joy to seep into her bones, hard-won but ephemeral, so fragile she daren’t scare it away by accepting it too zealously. She leaned closer, taking Ann’s lips in a hard, chaste kiss.

Satisfied, Anne smirked and tried to pull away, but Ann’s hand on the back of her neck stayed firm. She quickly gave in, deepening their kiss with a broad stroke of her tongue. That earned a low groan from her future wife, who pressed her body as close to Anne’s as she could, and began grinding against her thigh.

“Kiss me like a knight would, Ser Lister,” she whispered.

“In a broom closet, pressed against a shelf?” Anne teased.

Ann laughed, “ No . Like—I don’t know! Do what you want with me. Take me.”

“Ah, you don’t want chivalry. You want to be conquered,” Anne cooed, catching Ann’s cheek in a kiss.

“Yes,” she said in a breathy sigh.

Anne hummed softly as she brought their lips together in a slow, searching kiss. The queen’s hips rolled against Anne’s, her hands smoothing along Anne’s broad shoulders. Anne loved that; the action charged her with Ann’s protection, her safety, her content, things that came easier to Anne than breathing. Marriage oaths were serious, binding things, especially if you meant them, and poured your entire soul into the words. Anne was ready. She didn’t need words—they performed this wordless oath enough times that their bodies settled into a rhythm, familiar and comfortable, and their wedding in a few short weeks was an extravagant formality. It was hard to wait. 

Anne had a few ideas on how to make the wait less arduous.

They turned as one, Ann backing slowly toward the wall. She wove her tiny hands in the soft hairs at the nape of Anne’s neck.

“Anne,” she whined softly.

Anne grinned and kissed her again, slipping one hand along her betrothed’s back, following the gentle swell of her ass. Before Anne could even comprehend what Ann wanted, she had vaulted into her arms, locked her legs around Anne’s hips, and hooked her arms around Anne’s neck. Anne made a soft yelp of surprise, and Ann pulled back with a giggle.

“You’ve gone soft, Ser Lister,” she teased, stroking her thumb along Anne’s cheek. “Aren’t you meant to be my strong, dashing knight?”

“And I thought you were meant to be my timid, virtuous queen.”

They crashed together once more, lips and tongues and teeth slipping together as Anne pressed Ann into the wall. She could feel the warmth of Ann’s center against her stomach, the desperation in her kiss, the hunger in her hands. 

“Anne, I—“

“Quiet,” Anne said in a low growl, her teeth nipping against Ann’s bottom lip. “We’ll be heard.”

“There’s no—”

“Play along, darling,” Anne whispered in her ear. “Let your knight ravish you.”

Ann nodded, her eyes dancing with excitement as Anne shifted her weight and scrambled to find the hem of her gown. She kissed Anne’s neck, rolling her hips against the knight’s firm body. Finally, finally Anne found her way. Ann gasped.

“You’re so beautiful,” Anne said, her voice rough. 

Beneath her, even trembling and whining, a glimmer of sweat on her brow, Ann was a goddess. Anne marvelled that the movement of her fingers could affect an ethereal being so swiftly.

“Anne,” her betrothed groaned. “Oh, gods.”

“There are no gods, here, Your Majesty. Just you.”

Anne nipped at her bottom lip while her long fingers brought Ann closer and closer to her release. Ann broke away, gasping air into her lungs, and Anne turned her devilish kisses to the flushed column of Ann’s neck. Her muffled moans grew louder, needier, breathier. With a final, strangled sob, she trembled in Anne’s arms, ecstasy washing over her face and across her body.

Anne kissed along her collarbone, then licked the gleam of sweat across Ann’s heaving chest. Ann kissed her hair.

“That’s...a bit much,” Ann said as she caught her breath.

“What?”

“I said, I think...that’s a bit much...for our wedding kiss.”

“Ah,” Anne said, relieved. Then she laughed. “Do you think? Would you be upset if I kissed you like that in front of your aunt? Or William?”

Ann pursed her lips. “Would it be too late to call the wedding off at that point?”

“During the kiss? Yes, I think at that point it’s a done deal. I’ll have trapped you,” Anne informed her. 

They shared a smile. Anne carried her to a velvet loveseat, placing Ann’s legs in her lap. Ann closed her eyes, and soon Anne’s own fluttered shut. How strange it was to feel a little peace. Between her service in the kingsguard and hiding their relationship from every living soul for years, allowing themselves to doze off together in the middle of the afternoon felt too good to be true.

“I want to get married in Lidgate,” Ann murmured. “Not this cold, awful place.”

Anne opened her eyes just to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.

“Lidgate is a week’s ride away,” Anne reminded her. “You’d have us take a royal entourage to some unfortunate village and set up an impromptu royal wedding? Gods, that was a contradiction.”

“Mmm,” Ann hummed, thinking. Then a grin split her face. “Yes. Little River is just near the border—they were kind enough on our way in. I daresay the gods will it.”

“Ah, okay. I’m seeing that ‘the gods will it’ will rule my life from now on,” Anne teased.

“Have I already used that too many times?”

“For you, there is no limit,” Anne said tenderly. 

Lidgate was too present in Anne’s mind to be a memory. Every corner, nook, and cranny was familiar to her; she could trace the wavy valleys and hilltops on the back of her hand, and her veins were its bluish rivers. The land was as much a part of her as it was of Ann. Marrying there made sense.

“That’s a perfect idea,” Anne said warmly. “And clever. The Sutherlands won’t feel so insulted by our wedding if they aren’t forced to host it.”

“I’m sure they’ll find something to be insulted about,” Ann huffed.

Anne didn’t doubt that. As far as she was concerned, the Sutherland’s attitudes couldn’t get much worse. But a wedding wasn’t free. Between Ann’s dress, food, and flowers, they needed to rely on the Sutherland’s generosity to hold a legitimate ceremony. Hiring hunters for wild game—a boar was the traditional centerpiece of a Lidgatian wedding meal—and paying farmers for their backstock of crops during the winter wouldn’t be cheap.

Then an idea formed in her head.

Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Perhaps we could find a way to do the whole thing ourselves. Accept your dress as a wedding gift from the Sutherlands, hunt for the boar on our way to Little River, and petition the region’s duke, Lord—who is it? Henry?” Ann nodded. “Good, and petition him for the honor of hosting you. Assuming his non-answer means he isn’t aligned,” Anne finished bitterly. 

“Ugh, and that’s it’s own set of problems,” Ann said, rubbing her temples. “I may just send a runner. Maybe Prince Sutherland’s got intercepted.”

Anne bit her lips. She reasoned, “If the Royal Courier was attacked, Prince Sutherland would have said something. What if we send one of yours instead, and not tell anyone it’s being sent?”

Ann shifted to sit upright. Her brow furrowed. “You don’t think Prince Sutherland interfered?”

Anne shrugged. “I have no idea. But it would have been inconvenient for him, wouldn’t it, if the dukes had agreed to provide you with their men?”

“...Yes. We should send our own, I think. Just to see what happens.”

They fell into silence, pondering the implications if Prince Sutherland had misplaced or intercepted the dukes’ responses. He had admitted to corresponding with General—Anne refused to call him “King”—Rawson on Ann’s behalf; to such a man, interfering with the dukes wouldn’t be out of the question. Anne grit her teeth. If that was true, none of their communications were private or safe.

Ann’s feather-light kiss on her jaw turned her attention. 

“Does this mean you’re participating in the hunt?”

The hunt. Oh. Anne was so caught up in the betrothal and the other details of the ceremony that she hadn’t stopped to consider whether she or Ser Washington would slay the boar in Ann’s honor. Traditionally, one or both of the marrying royalty would do it, but the danger of the task meant it was more often relegated to a high-ranking knight or lesser family member as an honor. When Anne became captain of the kingsguard, she always assumed she’d hunt Ann’s boar—but never imagined herself as Ann’s suitor. 

“Well, as the former captain of your kingsguard, slaying the pig would have been my honor. I assisted King Sutherland’s men when your sister was wed,” Anne said. “It’s been a long time since Lidgate has hosted the wedding of its king or queen. Your father hunted his boar.”

“Did he? That seems so old-fashioned. But I suppose you’re a bit old-fashioned yourself,” Ann teased gently. 

“Funny, I thought that’s what you liked about me,” Anne said.

“I do,” Ann said. She giggled devilishly and climbed onto Anne’s lap. “I also like you for a different reason.”

Anne’s heartbeat quickened. She gripped Ann’s soft, pale thighs just under the hem of her dress. 

“You aren’t tired, your majesty?”

Ann ran her hands down Anne’s throat and over her shoulders. Her nails scratched the tender skin under her chin.

“On the contrary, I’ve set aside the entire day for you,” Ann murmured.

The touch of her betrothed’s lips was all the pleading Anne needed to find out exactly how exhausted Ann could be.

Chapter Text

Eliza couldn’t wait to leave that cold, awful, horrible, mean, cold, terrible, sticky, annoying, awful place. Ser Lister must have felt the same, because she never looked as cheerful as she had when she told Eliza to pack their horses. She must have been extra cheerful, because she instructed Eliza to make sure Queen Ann’s servants packed her majesty’s bag correctly, too.

Eliza was happy to be busy, to be useful . She had as many irons in the fire as a ten year old could handle: her usual duties as a squire, responsibility for the queen and the future queen consort’s bags, tracking down Ser Tiny, and squiring for Ser Lister for the Queen’s Hunt.

And, most importantly, today was her birthday. She didn’t need to tell anyone—the energy of it hummed in the air, infusing everything nearby like magic. The good kind, as evidenced by Ser Lister’s rare, beaming smile.

Turning ten was a big deal; each number provided double the magic. Eliza walked, light on her feet, lifted by it. The only thing that tethered her to the earth was Ser Tiny’s absence.

It made sense that Ser Tiny didn’t realize the importance of the day—he was an animal, obviously, and more magical within himself than any human being could ever hope to be, no matter how old—but it still hurt. She missed him. She missed the way his spine had begun to emerge in sharp, black spikes down his back, his fur curling around them like a trellis. She missed trying to ride him, and how her dream of becoming the knight whose steed was a dragon-wolf seemed more real every day. He was wild, and free, and those kinds of dreams were ones she had to earn—but she missed him.

Stupid thing. He could rot in the mud for missing her birthday. She didn’t want to treat him with kindness or try to understand—she was lonely, and he abandoned her, whatever the reason was.

Eliza smacked the first of Queen Ann’s bags on the wagon harder than she intended. The wood groaned, and a horse grazing nearby casually increased the distance between them. She grit her teeth. She would finish her tasks early if it killed her, just to have fun and spite him.

Eliza spun round with renewed determination, fighting a flutter of exhaustion at the tower of Queen Ann’s many belongings. They hadn’t even been at the castle long—how did she already have so many things ?

“Do you want help?” A small voice asked from behind her. 

Eliza puffed out her chest, ready to say no, she absolutely did not need help, especially in a task assigned to her and her only by the queen—through Ser Lister—and how dare they even suggest —

But she didn’t. She didn’t, because the owner of the voice stood in front of her, and she was the prettiest girl Eliza had ever seen, and she didn’t know what to do. Her tight black curls, amber skin, and simple, pink cloth dress enchanted Eliza instantly.

“Sorry,” Eliza settled on, channeling her gruffest memories of Ser Lister. “Can’t. This is the queen’s business. Er—Queen Ann, I mean.”

“Oh! You’re the, um, you’re—you’re Ser Lister’s squire, aren’t you?” she said.

Her light brown eyes widened in excitement. Eliza swelled with pride. So far, the entirety of her squiredom was spent in rural villages and on quiet roads. Here in the Sutherland’s castle was the first time she was ever recognized as the squire to a knight as esteemed as Ser Lister—and the nice rooms, warm food, and respect from other servants that came along with it.

Grinning, Eliza said, “I am.” 

“What’s it like?” the girl asked, stepping closer.

She looked like a lady’s maid of some kind. She smelled nice, and her clothes—though simple—were crisp and clean. 

“Hard work,” Eliza answered. “Ser Lister is tough. But I’d never want to learn from anyone else. I—we’ve encountered everything from wild animals to dangerous men to a plague together. She can defeat anything. And someday, I will too. I’m going with her on the hunt.”

“That sounds pretty dangerous,” she said, breathless. 

“Ser Lister said even an adult could get gored by a boar if they weren’t careful,” Eliza explained. “But I’m pretty fast. I’ll be safe.”

“Do you have anyone...to check on you, when you get back? To miss you? And m-make sure you’re safe?”

The question took her aback. Eliza blinked, searching her suddenly-empty brain for anything to say. As she searched, she realized—too late—that she’d entirely forgotten what her new admirer had asked.

“I—er—um, y-yes. No! I mean, well, Queen Ann knows me pretty well. She’d notice if anything happened to me. B-but she’s busy, obviously, and Ser Lister—“

The girl interrupted, “Would you mind if I looked for you after? Just so I—I don’t worry that—you know—if anything were to—“

“Yes! I mean—sure. Yes. I’ll find you,” Eliza said, a blush coloring her cheeks.

The girl leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Before Eliza could process what happened, the girl dashed away, returning to a friend that waited for her by the trees. Her friend was talking fast, but she quieted her with frantic, waving arms, before finally tugging them both out of sight.

Eliza returned to her task, trying her best to look cool and tough, but realized with a sinking stomach that she never thought to ask the girl’s name.

***

Anne stole an early breakfast from the kitchens, swiping two slabs of bacon the size of her head for herself, and two more for her betrothed for good measure. 

She had already had a productive day—Eliza set to work on a list of small, benal tasks that were impossible to complete in the time allotted, so she’d leave Anne alone; Ser Washington, Ser Sowden, and she consulted with King Sutherland’s hunters on the boar population and movements near the border where they would be hunting; and finally, she helped the royal florist prepare a bouquet for Ann of the brightest flowers available in the greenhouse and sent it to her rooms.

Ann was awake earlier than usual, and summoned Anne with a note:

Dearest,

Thank you for the flowers. 

Meet me when you can. Don’t rush .

Anne eyed the servant with a raised eyebrow. “Did she say anything else?”

The servant shied away from her, training his eyes on the floor. “Er—no. But she seemed...tired.”

“She just woke up,” Anne snapped.

He bit the inside of his cheek, as if deciding whether to challenge her. He said, “She...did, but perhaps the better word is...weary.”

Interesting. The night before, Ann remarked that her cheeks hurt from smiling.  When Anne left her betrothed earlier that morning, she was sound asleep, snoring louder than thunder, happily nestled in her thousand pillows. What had happened in the few hours since?

Anne crumpled the note in her pocket, then waggled the bacon at the servant.

“I’m taking these, but I need another breakfast sent to the queen’s room. That’s Queen Ann , mind you. Not the other one. And bring something sweet,” she ordered. 

“Yes, ser,” he said, bowing.

A thousand terrible possibilities stormed her mind, each worse than the last. Her heart raced. The worst case scenario took hold of her quickly—was this a note sent by a member of her family, holding her hostage until she called off the wedding and married her to someone else against her will? 

When Anne burst into Ann’s room, her sword half-drawn, Ann jumped from her makeshift desk near the hearth, holding her hand to her chest.

Ann was alone, and fine, if suffering from a little shock. Anne let out a breath.

“What’s happened?” Anne said, checking the windows out of habit.

Ann smiled, but her eyebrows knit in the first look of true concern she had worn since the ball. Ink stained her wrist and pinky finger. Crumpled up bits of parchment littered the hearth, blackening as they caught fire and turned to ash.

“I knew you’d worry and come right away. I shouldn’t have sent,” Ann sighed.

“What are you writing?” Anne blurted.

Ann pursed her lips. “My messenger to Duke Henry returned.”

Anne read the tension in the air. She bristled with rage.  “And he’s refused to host the wedding of his queen , whom he declared his allegiance to years ago, and who generously—“

Ann shook her head. “No, he’s accepted. And with his acceptance, he’s asked when we plan to march against Rawson as well.”

Anne studied her betrothed’s troubled expression.

“That’s...good. Why are you so upset?”

“Because!” Ann began, exasperated. “It means the Sutherlands—at least Prince Sutherland—have been working against us the entire time . And not in an ignorant way. He’s—he’s withheld information, he’s possibly communicating to the dukes on my behalf, saying gods-know-what! Anne, this is worse than refusal. I can’t—I can’t undo this mess, it’s—ugh!” 

Ann smacked her own forehead. Anne took her trembling hand, smoothing her thumb over Ann’s until her breathing steadied.

“Everything will be okay,” Anne promised gently. “Look at how far we’ve come. Duke Henry seems to harbor no ill will, and perhaps the others don’t, either. We don’t know the extent of the damage. Let’s take this in small steps.”

Ann’s shoulders sank, her flourishing anxiety wilting to exhaustion. Anne understood; their peace seemed so fragile, every disturbance felt like a scout in the trees, signaling an army closing in. Happiness was a precious thing—trusting their hearts to it left them vulnerable.

“You’re right. And—and I know it seems silly of me, but I’m worried about your hunt. What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong. Royals talk up the ferociousness of boars to make themselves feel more valiant for slaying them. I’ve hunted dragons, my love. Every knight in your service has. A little piggy will be no problem for us.”

That teased a smile from her. Gods, the twist of her lips was more radiant than the sun.

“If you say so,” she said, resting her head on Anne’s shoulder.

Anne kissed her hair. “I do. And I promise, for you, we will take it very seriously.”

“I’ll be worried sick all night,” Ann admitted shyly.

“You’ll be far too busy to worry. Elizabeth will keep you so busy, you’ll forget I’m even gone,” Anne said. “And then when we return, you’ll be so full of wine and fresh vegetables that you won’t want to eat anymore. In ten years, you’ll be asked, ‘How was the boar Ser Lister slayed for you?’ and you’ll have to tell them you didn’t even eat it.”

“Oh, I plan to stay away from the wine! I’m already worried about staying up all night,” Ann giggled.

Anne kissed her, relishing the breathy laugh against her lips. “That’ll be the easy part. We’ll make it to dawn without getting a wink of sleep,” Anne drawled.

“Dawn…” Ann sighed. “Our wedding. I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

Anne said, “It is. Feels a little unreal, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ann agreed. Then she eyed the unfinished letter on her desk. “I should finish responding to the duke before we leave.”

Anne grinned mischievously. She said, “You know, I don’t think we need to address Prince Sutherland’s meddling just yet. Why don’t you show me how you’re going to kiss me again?”

Ann sank into her arms, deepening their kiss. She wrapped her legs around Anne’s waist, the letter forgotten, and their hot breakfast growing cold.

***

When Anne had suggested not to confront Prince Sutherland, Ann stared pensively at her tea for a long while. 

Anne understood her hesitation; the timing of it all was terrible. They would leave the Sutherlands’ kingdom—with no intention to return—tomorrow, and marry when they arrived in Lidgate. They fell into bed that morning and never left, enjoying each other’s company into the early evening. Any letters Prince Sutherland might have intercepted had long since been burned, and all the damage was already done. There was also little proof they had to accuse him; one vague letter from one duke wouldn’t be enough, and even if it was, the avalanche of implications couldn’t be resolved over breakfast. 

“If we ignore it, it won’t go away,” Ann finally said. 

Anne set her own cup on the nightstand, then swivelled in the bed to face her betrothed. The blanket clung to her bare waist and calf, twisting her leg at an awkward angle, but she didn’t care. She lifted Ann’s chin with a finger so the girl would look at her. When Anne met her gentle, sky-blue gaze, they both softened. Anne hadn’t even noticed the tension in her own shoulders until it left her like a long, deep sigh.

“It won’t,” Anne agreed. “But now we have the advantage. We don’t know the extent of the damage he caused, of course—but I think our best course of action in that regard is to consult Duke Henry. Have he and Prince Sutherland had any correspondence, who was the messenger assigned to him, that sort of thing.”

“If you say so,” Ann said. Then she flashed a shy half-smile. “I’m glad you’re here. You’re good at this. I’m...not so confident when it comes to strategic choices. I feel paralyzed with the ever-expanding web of decisions.”

Anne pet her cheek with the back of her hand. It was sometimes impossible for her to comprehend that the woman before her didn’t know how precious and intelligent she was.

Anne murmured, “I’ve lost to you in chess hundreds of times—you know how to make decisions. This is the same—you think, and when your thoughts overwhelm you to the point where they become meaningless, you act, and then you do it over again. For you, that means until you win.”

“Chess is a game. This is—there are people’s lives at stake! I’m taking us to war, and I wonder if I will never sleep peacefully once it begins. I can’t think of this like a game. It feels wrong to erase the gravity of every choice,” Ann protested. 

Once, Ann’s infuriating ability to empathize with anyone, even in theoretical situations, frustrated her. When others struggled to strategize any decision from road taxes to war like a chess game, Ann added to her hardship by lighting fire under the chessboard and moving her pieces through spinning hoops. Now, Anne understood that that was why the gods had charged her with their kingdom. 

“You’re right. All I mean to say is that you can do this,” Anne said. 

Ann took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I’m glad we’re leaving tomorrow,” Ann said, rubbing her temple. “I feel safer in the woods. Here, I feel like—” She made a squeezing gesture with both of her fists. “—like wolves are closing in.”

Anne hadn’t trusted the Sutherlands from the start. The revelation vindicated her and heightened her fury all at once. His treachery proved to her that the Walker’s strategic marriages weren’t foolproof. Thinking about Ann’s narrow escape from one numbed her. Did a reality exist where Anne—more in control of her feelings and far less stupid—had never indulged in her affection for her queen, and she had to watch Ann marry someone she didn’t love, all while Prince Sutherland betrayed her anyway?

No. Anne would be dead before she allowed that to happen.

“Never. I won’t let them,” Anne promised. 

She returned to her place next to Ann, and Ann tucked her face into the crook of her neck. Anne stilled, then reached for her journal to review their preparations for the coming week. Everything was packed, invitations—the few that could be delivered—were sent, and crossbows, rations, and horses for the hunt were accounted for. While Anne checked and rechecked everything off of her list, Ann’s breathing slowed, and her muffled snores kept Anne awake for another hour.

Chapter Text

Spring flourished the farther west they travelled, the rolling hills sloughing off snow and buds speckling tree branches in a spray of greens and yellows. Spring was to the new year as dawn was to day—a beginning. Something new bursting from something worn. It was the perfect symbol for the beginning of their wedding rituals.

Ann flourished as Lidgate unfolded in twinkling, winding rivers on the horizon. Her smile had returned, and her bright, full laugh was a regular sound in the evening camp. Anne had learned to expect hardship on the road, but the entire week passed easily—nothing as minor as a drop of rain or a fallen tree delayed them. She wanted to read into it as a harbinger for some terrible thing that would soon befall them, roads clean for an army, maybe, or to lure them into a trap laid by bandits, but anything that jumped to her mind could be disproved with minimal effort. Their trip was simply...easy.

The calm before the storm, she resolved stubbornly. 

Two days before their wedding, Anne and the hunting party gathered their things to begin scouting. A few of the men had left a day ahead to track and locate the boars in the area before their arrival, but Anne would make the final choice. 

Ann looked on with pursed lips while Eliza finished buckling the straps of her chestpiece. Poor thing. Anne could say a thousand words to soothe her, and she still wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until they returned.

“You’re wishing you could rip the armor back off of me and ravish me, don’t you?” Anne teased, hoping the joke might make Ann laugh.

Instead, Ann looked away. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said thickly. 

“It won’t be long. We’ll scout the animals tonight, make a plan, and I’ll return to you tomorrow night with the most delicious cut of meat ever to grace your tongue. And then, after dinner, I’ll...entertain you until the ceremony. So fast, you’ll wish you’d savored it more,” Anne promised.

“Don’t do anything irresponsible,” Ann said. “Especially to show off.”

“Show off? Me? To them? I’m marrying a queen ,” Anne reminded her, laughing.

Ann shook her head, and whispered, “I don’t like that Prince Sutherland is going with you.”

Oh. Him . Anne had almost forgotten King Sutherland’s gentle threat over breakfast. 

Anne grimaced. “You were right—we have to make him feel important. And we want him with me, where he can do no damage, instead of with you and Duke Henry, where he can meddle. I’ll rest easier knowing he’s with me, surrounded by my people,” Anne said. 

Ann nodded. “That’s true. Does Ser Washington know—everything, then?”

The entire kingsguard knew the full extent of Prince Sutherland’s treachery. After Rawson, Anne figured it was best that they be briefed in as much of the situation as possible. She trusted Ser Washington to take the appropriate precautions for both Ann and herself; the kingsguard were to be split evenly between them during the hunt.

“Yes. That is one of the reasons why Ser Washington will be with me instead of you—to assess Prince Sutherland as a physical threat himself.”

“Is it hard to hand it over like that?” Ann asked gently. “Being in charge, I mean. Taking responsibility for the guard.”

Anne blinked. The question took her by surprise, but she couldn’t deny the grief tugging at her heart. She had spent her life training for the highest honor a knight could achieve—a lifelong honor, and given up Mariana to pursue it. Many of the things she sacrificed for her position in the kingsguard could not be replaced. 

And, in turn, she had sacrificed that for the queen she had sworn to protect. It sounded more poetic than it felt. Their story read like a fairytale—only with the murkiness of reality mixed in.

“I trust him with our lives,” Anne said. Her smile faltered, flashing Ann the conflict churning her stomach. “But, yes, it is a little bittersweet.”

Eliza pulled the strings on her bracer too tight, pinching her arm. Anne winced. 

“Eliza, why don’t you ask the cooks if there’s anything they need? I hear there’s a shortage of firewood,” Ann said gently. 

The girl’s eyes widened with excitement. “You mean—oh! I’ll get to use an ax!” she gushed, and hurried off.

Anne rolled her eyes. The most banal things excited children.

“It would be a ‘hatchet,’ and no, they probably wouldn’t ask a ten-year-old to use one,” Anne muttered under her breath.

“Let her be excited,” Ann said. 

She took Eliza’s place on the stool beside her. Her delicate fingers pulled apart the too-tight laces on her bracer, then tightened the threads with the precision and care of a sculptor. She adjusted each knot and crisscrossing string as though a master would soon judge the composition of their shapes. Anne’s chest ached from her tenderness. 

Ann finished and reached immediately for Anne’s other arm, loosening and re-tightening the piece again. Anne opened her mouth to speak, but her betrothed quieted her with a small smile. 

“I will think about these moments over and over, mulling over what I could have or should have said before you left. Instead, I’d like to think about the vein running from the back of your hand, all the way up to your wrist. And the way you always smell a little like the kitchens in autumn, and watch me so sweetly, like you’re trying to decide which moment is the appropriate one to kiss me.”

“Does this moment work?”

“Oh, it’s no fun if I tell you. I know you like a bit of risk,” Ann said. Her smile betrayed her bluff.

Anne tilted her head, and Ann—for all her talk—rose to meet her. Their lips touched lightly, then fully, sinking into warmth and the safe, separate reality their affection created; for just a moment, it buffered the voices and laughter around them; it exposed time as a fabrication, and they spent one hundred years together in the span of a breath. Ann cupped her cheek. Her gentle, dry palm tore an ungodly growl from Anne’s throat, and she tangled her fingers in Ann’s neatly-pinned hair and squeezed.

“Take me to our tent before you go,” Ann breathed.

“You’re a naughty thing,” Anne scolded. 

Yet, it was her grip that tightened on Ann. Ann’s breath hitched. Curse it, they didn’t have time. Anne slipped her hand between Ann’s thighs, tugging her closer, then rubbing the inside of her left thigh with her thumb.

Ann caught her hand. She grinned into their kiss.

“You’re filthy ,” Ann teased. “Anyone could walk in here at any moment. It’s a barn—there aren’t even doors! Soon, you know, I won’t be the only royal between us. We’ll have to maintain a certain level of dignity.”

Despite the levity in her tone, Anne understood her concern. They were invisible before—albeit in the worst way—and now, servants, politicians, and commonfolk alike measured every breath they took. Many would never know their likenesses, but any action or encounter might spark rumors like wildfire, growing larger and more uncontrollable as it engulfed the kingdom.

“I was watching,” Anne said.

“And if you’re watching, who’s paying attention to me?” she scolded.

“I can do both! But I suppose you have a point. It’s for the best—we haven’t got time,” Anne said, feigning haste. The hunting party wasn’t about to leave her behind.

Ann shrank away. “I suppose we haven’t. I just want all of this—not our wedding, obviously, but everything else—to be over. The thought of living one more second exhausts me,” she sighed. Then she looked up, flashing a small smile. “That sounds worse than what I mean. I just mean—the next few days, and contacting the dukes—ugh. Exhausting.”

Gentle gray rings circled Ann’s eyes. Her laugher and bubbly conversation had hid them well. Anne pressed a dry kiss beneath each of her eyes, tending to her beloved with the same sweetness she had shown her.  Ann leaned into her touch, but she didn’t relax fully; something else was wrong.

“Is everything all right?”

Ann flushed. “Oh, sorry to be so frustrating, I’m just—no matter how long I do this, I’ll always be a little nervous looking— feeling like a child. And I’m so worried about you, I’ve hardly had time to think about what I’ll be doing.”

“Your task is to welcome the guests and make them feel comfortable,” Anne said, grimacing. “You’ve seen me at balls and parties. Royals don’t think of me as one of them, regardless of my title and relationship to you. You’ll have an easier time charming Duke Henry without me there.”

“I suppose I’ve got to get on his good side, to make talking to the others easier,” Ann murmured, frowning. “You don’t think I could stow away and join you? I could put on a disguise, so no one would recognize me.”

Anne grinned. “Oh? I suppose we could switch you and Eliza, she—“

“A child! How dare you,” Ann scoffed. “I was thinking I could pass as a knight.” 

Anne bit back a laugh. She didn’t want to be mean. And yet—

“We could stuff your armor with straw to fill it out a little, in the arms and shoulders,” Anne mused. “If you never have to draw your sword or lift something heavy—oh, or remove your armor, no one will ever find out.”

Ann huffed, but the corners of her eyes crinkled with laughter. 

“Who said my name?” Eliza called from the entrance of the barn.

The girl walked in balancing a dull hatchet on her shoulder. Chopping a few logs put more swagger on her step than a knight fresh from their first win in a tourney; her cheeks blazed red, her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and even a scowl from Anne didn’t wipe the smile off her face.

“You weren’t summoned,” Anne scolded gently.

“I’m to—“ Anne raised an eyebrow, and the girl immediately buckled. “Ser Washington said—said to come fetch you,” Eliza continued.

“‘Fetch’ me?”

“Er—what he said was, it’s getting late, and to—um, come and...get you,” she blustered. 

“I don’t want you to go yet,” Ann sighed. 

Anne shrugged. To Eliza, she said, “You heard the queen. She’s made a decree. I’m commanded to stay.”

“Ser Washington said—”

“Yes, I know ,” Anne snapped, waving her away. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Right. I was saying, Ser Washington said I was to wait for you. Um, since they’ve taken the horses, uh, to the tavern, and—”

Ser Washington had clearly given the child explicit instructions to retrieve Anne. Anne rolled her eyes.

“We are surrounded by incompetence,” Anne murmured to her betrothed. 

Ann hummed her response. Her finger traced the lines of her palm. Gentle ministrations became hard, repetitive movements as Ann realized her departure was near. They pressed their foreheads together.

“Sweetheart, I have to go. I have things to do,” Anne whispered.

Ann wrapped her arms around Anne’s shoulders. Anne drew her tiny frame closer with one arm, pulling her into a kiss. She savored the insistence of her mouth, the gentle pressure of her tongue, and her hot, heavy breaths. Ann’s tongue brushed Anne’s bottom lip, their teeth clashing. Anne pulled away, then kissed her again, tenderly, in a final goodbye.

Behind her, Eliza gagged.

“Someday you will have to say goodbye to someone you love, and you will understand,” Anne murmured, never taking her eyes off of Ann.

“We’ll be gone for a day ,” Eliza protested.

Anne’s lip curled reproachfully. “If you stopped breathing for a day, could you survive it? If your heart was ripped from your chest, would you live even a moment longer? Time doesn’t mean a thing,” Anne snapped, but her voice tinged with laughter.

Eliza quieted, thinking. That was the best thing about children—if Anne hammered through the stubbornness and selfishness and actually tricked Eliza into a moment of self-reflection, she haa minutes—sometimes an hour—of peace. A child wasn’t going to accuse her of hyperbole in an effort to invalidate her argument. She would consider it, weigh it, and measure the heart of it. In many ways, adults like Prince Sutherland could learn a lesson from her.

“Then she should come with,” Eliza resolved. 

“Mmm,” Anne hummed, nodding. She bit back a smile. To Ann, she said, “What do you think?”

Ann grimaced. “I think I’d like to crawl on the floor where no one can find me and sleep until our wedding.”

Anne lifted her chin with a finger. “When I return to you, it will be as if we were never apart,” she promised.

“I love you,” Ann said. “Be safe.” 

***

They met the scout three hours in, just as he tucked in to his dinner. He stood when Anne dismounted her horse to meet him, straight-backed and obedient, his eyes not wavering once to the abandoned meal at his feet. Anne knew immediately that this was not one of the Sutherlands’ men, but Duke Henry’s.

“Thank you,” Anne said, and gestured for him to eat. “What areas should we focus on tonight?”

He obeyed, wolfing down a quarter-loaf of bread so he could speak. He ripped a bite off with his teeth, then used one hand to awkwardly unroll his map on a log he’d used as a makeshift table. Ser Washington held it down while the scout pointed.

“We only need to go to one—there.You’ll be pleased—I’ve never seen a more fearsome animal. Not quite a dragon—it’s far more pleasant—but I expect he’ll be a suitable challenge anyway.”

“Good,” Anne said, clapping him on the back. “What else can you tell us?”

“Anything I tell you will mean little until you see the animal for yourself, ser,” he said. “When the sun sets, we can leave. It isn’t more than a twenty minute trek.”

Anne regarded him with measured uncertainty. The scout couldn’t have been younger than fifty; specks of white and gray peppered his black beard, and the sun had drawn wrinkles like cracked riverbeds across his forehead. Younger men became excitable in the presence of the most common of beasts; this man was too experienced to be a fool, yet he was certain he’d found a pig that might challenge six experienced knights. She allowed herself to be excited by the prospect.

“Careful, or I might be disappointed,” she said.

The scout cracked a smile. “Trust me, you won’t be.” 

They set up camp while waiting for dusk. Anne and the kingsguard finished in time to eat a meal first; nearly all of them former soldiers, they brought very little with them. Prince Sutherland and his men, however, had only just set up their bulky tents when darkness fell. They scurried to set up fires and warm the Prince’s dinner in time.

Anne didn’t bother to stifle her chuckle when the Prince met them at the edge of camp, out of breath and holding a half-eaten sausage in one hand.

“Something funny?” he sneered.

Anne grinned. She didn’t want to push him too far, however. She said, “No, your grace.”

“Your rank will not erase your birth,” he reminded her quietly. “Your wit, manipulativeness, and brutish behavior will never change the fact that you were not—and will never be—anointed by the gods.”

Anne had nothing to prove to him. “If you say so,” she said amicably.

“I do. And when this pig slaughters you, you’ll wish you had heeded me sooner.”

Anne clicked her tongue. “You forget yourself, your grace. I may no longer be kingsguard, but I am a knight. When the beast senses your hesitation, knocks you from your horse, and gores you with its tusks, I’ll make sure you live to see the feast.”

In truth, she would have been happy to see the prince die, if only for being a pest. But death was too honorable a thing for him. 

Ser Washington stepped between them. He nodded to the scout. “Are you ready?”

The scout grinned. “I should ask the same from you.”

Dark leaves blotted out the moonlight. The scout led them quietly through thin, winding deer trails, but a band of knights could only be so quiet, even without heavy armor. Anne snapped twigs and thwacked branches—sometimes on purpose, as Prince Sutherland was behind her—and others hissed curses that carried in the silence. If the scout was worried about the noise scaring off their quarry, he didn’t say so. He simply pressed forward. 

Eliza didn’t have the sense to trust the scout. “Won’t it hear us coming? Won’t it see the torches? How do you know it’s this way—I mean, the first time, how did you find it?” she asked in a piercing whisper. 

“You’re being a nuisance,” Anne scolded her.

The scout said, “It is no problem, ser. We won’t get near enough to our quarry for it to see or hear us, child. In the daylight, a beast such as this gives its presence in the forest away without being seen. He snaps more twigs and saplings than even her majesty’s guard.”

Eliza snickered. Anne rolled her eyes.

“So we’re in no danger here?” Sutherland said.

“Er—“ The scout paused, grasping for words. “There is, of course, a considerable amount of danger in the forest, your grace. It is not mating season, however, so these boars aren’t looking for a fight.”

“Hmm,” he sniffed. Anne didn’t need to look back to know that he was glaring.

They stopped at the edge of a clearing, where underbrush turned to long grasses and jutting rocks. The earth sloped fiercely upward and out, the grassy hill in front of them enclosed by granite cliffs, like the flat tongue of a wide-open mouth. It flattened near the peak, where dark shapes huddled in the middle.

The scout tossed her his scope and pointed toward the shapes.

“Your beast is there, Ser Lister,” he said, grinning wide.

Anne caught it, and passed Eliza the torch.

“Put it out. Don’t burn yourself,” Anne said sternly.

The girl glared.

Anne peered into the glass, moving it across the gray-and-white grasses until a sounder of four boars came into view. They were an assortment of rusty browns and desaturated blacks, even under the white light of the moon, but her prize was in the middle of the clearing, standing tall on a flat slab of slate.

The snowy white boar stared in their direction, as if it knew they were there. His ivory tusks jutted strangely from his mouth, pockmarked and cracked, and his single filmy eye caught the moonlight in a muted glint, like worn steel. He was as large as a small dragon, and at least half as ancient, towering over the other animals, who looked like piglets in comparison, but could feed at least two dozen soldiers on their own.

“What do you think?” the scout asked smugly as Anne passed the scope to Ser Washington.

“It’ll do,” she said, but a mirthful sigh betrayed her. A plan was already in her head, half-formed. “We’ll need as many spears as we can bring along. This one will put up a hell of a fight. We’ll separate him, then run him to the river where it’s deepest—”

“That’s big enough to be a god!” Prince Sutherland exclaimed.

“Not a god,” Anne sneered. “It’s a beast made of muscle and flesh. It can be killed as easily as you and me. But it is a mythical thing—I know a musician who may have me killed for not inviting her along,” she mused.

A thrill thrummed through her. Knights often brought poets along on journeys like these; half the point of being a knight—not officially, but really —was the feeling of dancing in a tavern, hardly able to stand, while a poet sang of your exploits in the most perilous and flattering light. Usually poets hung around when a beast such as this was near—but pigs aren’t as ripe for legend as dragons, evidently. Anne sniffed. Her own retelling would have to do. 

“Right.” She nodded to the scout. “Let’s get going, then. We have work to do, and we’ll need all the rest we can get.”

***

The next evening, the moon sat full in the sky and drenched the lush, green forest in white light. The dark, star-peppered sky was the infinite eye of the gods, and the full moon was like an aimless cataract, its white light obscuring more than it illuminated, allowing evil things to stalk the earth. Beneath it, all things were black and white, Anne’s own skin radiating as brightly as the pig’s snowy fur. Visibility was dangerous; all creatures would be alert tonight.

The omen unsettled Anne’s hunting party. The more religious members looked up toward the sky, scowling, their expressions made fiercer by the stark shadows cutting their lips and cheeks. Jovial exhilaration from the evening before turned to solemnity, and a sense of duty toward the deed ahead. Even Prince Sutherland seemed caught somewhere between apprehension and seriousness; Anne hardly heard him speak while they planned the hunt.

“Full moon,” Eliza observed nervously. “That’s not good. Maybe we—“

“Hush,” Anne said.

The girl quieted.

They readied Argus in silence. Anne felt the stallion’s excitement under her palms, his quivering skin and then stillness while Anne braided his mane. Argus was a war horse; this was his purpose—not silly tourneys or travel, but danger. Like Anne, he hadn’t plunged into true excitement and adrenaline for a long time, and he craved it. 

Anne smiled and pet his large cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re ready, aren’t you? You need this even more than me,” she murmured.

They followed a longer path around the hill, each knight separating from the whole in pairs to corral the boar near the deepest section of the nearby river, where they would force it to fight. Anne made sure that Eliza—who was much too brave for a child and the definition of foolishness itself—stayed with the scout, close enough to see, but too far away to join in.

Ser Washington and Prince Sutherland fell back as they neared the boar, allowing Anne to approach the beast alone. She held the first of three spears lightly in her hand. The guard near the handle of the spear seemed flimsy as the boar turned from a blot of white to a massive, furry, blood-streaked mountain.

It was big. She knew that. Yet it breathed, laborious and deep, and seemed to suck all the air from the atmosphere to fill its lungs. Arrowheads lay embedded in its skin, and mats mottled its stringy fur, barren in places where branches or fighting wiped it clean. Anne cursed herself for not bringing more than three spears.

Many ancient things wore the weight of living like heavy hands upon their shoulders, slow to move or contemplative, like time itself had lost meaning. The boar, for its marred and bloody body, did not possess such a burden. It moved faster than its companions, and though missing one eye, dodged Prince Sutherland’s arrows as if it had two, and charged toward Anne, all brute strength and madness.

The beast towered over Argus, bathing them in inky shadow. A lesser animal would have fled, but Argus stood his ground. Anne met the beast with calm determination, gripping Argus with her knees to hold herself steady, and lunged toward the boar’s good eye with her spear.

 But an animal doesn’t live to be as old as this without a healthy combination of instinct and intelligence. It bellowed a terrible scream, pushing aside her spear with its snout and bursting past her toward the river.

Ser Washington blew his horn, signalling to the others below that the beast was on the move.

Anne’s heart beat wildly. In the presence of the boar, each heartbeat held a thousand moments—a breath, the flicker of an eye, a cool breeze, a turning hoof, the crunch of dirt, and hiss of grass—and as soon as it left, she struggled to keep up with its thrumming, nearly gasping for breath. 

Wordlessly, Ser Washington, Prince Sutherland, and she followed the boar. But not too closely; Argus needed his strength for navigating the forest’s underbrush and dodging the beast's attacks. Ser Sowden and one of Duke Henry’s men howled and laughed just out of sight as they forced the beast to run alongside the river. 

The pig’s scream pierced the air, turning guttural toward the end. Someone had buried an arrow or spear in the beast. Panicked shouting followed, and a horse burst from the trees, fleeing. The beast had lashed out at one of its attackers, unseating them from their horse. Anne caught Ser Washington’s worried glance, and they increased their speed.

They arrived where the roaring river met steep, fragmented cliffs that arched over the water like a long arm. The hunting party encircled the beast, keeping their distance. The boar was cornered and desperate, huffing and snorting as it paced between the river and the cliffs, assessing those circled around it for a weak point, trying to find a way through.

Anne approached the beast once more, and the world darkened; above them, a thick, velvety cloud blotted out the moon. The gods are watching now, Anne thought. Good.

Argus and she trotted into the clearing, and Anne readied her spear. Bolts from crossbows fired at close range were embedded in the beast’s skin, causing a slight limp in the back left leg. He huffed a warning, lowering his head to charge, and Anne met its steely gaze.

It charged, and Anne did too, her knuckles white as they met in the middle like two knights in a joust.

But a joust was a test of skill and endurance. This was faster, and far more brutal. This time, Anne’s opponent wasn’t bound by honor or ritual, and she wasn’t, either. 

At the last second, she tugged on Argus’s reins and veered sharply to the left, lunging with her spear in the same movement. The beast screamed as the blade pierced its skin, blood splattering when Anne pulled it free. The beast’s momentum took it to the edge of their makeshift arena, where a flurry of blades bade it back. It turned again to face Anne, understanding her as its opponent.

This time, Anne charged first.

Anne thrust her spear again, slamming the weight of her body into it, burying the spearhead into its side with a stiff thud. Her fingers slipped from the blood slathered on the hilt. The beast tore her ears with a shrill, unending squeal, but the fight had transported her to a different plane of existence. 

She visited that place often as a soldier. Death brought her there; nothing shook the foundation of mortality like feeling a person become meat. She had to distance herself from the act. 

The boar squealed again, and she hardly heard it, and buried a second spear into its chest, cracking ribs, hitting solid muscle, searching for the heart. The steel met dense, squelching resistance, but each thrust plunged it closer to the target. 

The beast latched on to the spear with its tusk. It dove at her, the blade sinking deeper into its flesh, then snapping like a twig, and the barrier between Anne and the pig’s tusks was gone. She fell to the ground, and the impact knocked all the air from her lungs.

Anne had a single, fleeting thought: Oh, wow, this is really how I’m going to die .

She had less than a heartbeat to escape. Each moment became its own fragment—the pig, above her, lunging with its dull, powerful tusks; the men behind her, yelling, spurned to action a second too late; the chilly night air touching her face—and Ann’s, too, in that final, bittersweet breath; and the beast above her again, knocked aside somehow, blood pouring from its eyes.

Before Anne could act, a bolt shot through the pigs head, entering through its dead eye and exiting the other with a grotesque pop. The body fell forward. Anne scrambled out of the way, then followed the direction of the bolt to see who had saved her life.

Eliza perked up from between the trees, the scout’s unloaded crossbow balanced on a boulder in front of her. Unaware of the scolding she was about to receive—very, very soon—the girl waved, and made a cocky remark that was blissfully whisked away by the wind.

The tension in Anne’s body spilled from her in a single, overwhelming gush of laughter. 

“You gave us a bit of a fright,” Ser Washington said, the worry not quite gone from his brow. “How was it?”

Anne’s blood still sang from exhilaration. She knelt down next to the carcass. Even sucked clean of life, the creature was monstrous. It would feed their wedding guests three times over.

“Sometimes, I wonder if the gods placed beasts like this on the earth for their entertainment,” Anne replied, staring into the pig’s shiny, bloodsoaked eye. “I like to think we gave them a good show.”

Chapter Text

Little River was a small, quaint town on the north side of its namesake, an equally quaint creek as smooth and clear as glass. Water rushed over rounded purple stones, snagged on gray-green sticks, and eddied around Ann’s bare feet. She closed her eyes and listened; beyond the dribble of the creek were dozens of excited voices, shrieking children, singing birds, and the gentle, rhythmic hammering of carpenters building tents and benches.

Duke Henry had offered to host the wedding at his castle, but Ann politely declined. The five day trip to the castle would delay their wedding even longer. More than that, she preferred the bright grass, the water, and the awestruck villagers that understood themselves to be part of something romantic and at least a little magical. Instead of the flicker of annoyance Ann expected from the elderly man, he grinned.

“If I could do it all over again, I would do it simply, too. Folk like us have far too much pomp and ceremony in our lives,” he had added. 

Ann liked him. She had met the duke twice—as a child, of course, and during the first year of her rule, when he swore fealty to her, but those years blurred in her memory. This man lived quietly in a faraway corner of the kingdom and asked little of her during the first years of her rule. He was kind and seemed to think little of the former general.

Despite her declination, the duke graciously set Ann and her family up in the little village. Banners in the Walker’s royal green lined the streets; curtains in bright yellows, oranges, and reds hung low over the bustling shops; flowers framed the grassy fringes of the town in bristling lavenders, swelling pinks, and sprawling yellow-greens; each veiled the pastoral town in wealth worthy of a royal family.

With that out of the way, Ann allowed herself to relax. Or tried to—Elizabeth and her aunt were sure to find her any moment and give her a litany of decisions to make and clothes to try on. Ann pursed her lips. The half-dozen knights in gleaming armor stationed around her didn’t help her odds of remaining hidden.

“Ser Mackenzie,” Ann whispered. “James!”

From a dozen feet away, James raised his eyebrow, then rushed over to Ann.

“Is everything all right, your majesty?”

“Could you—I’m sorry, this is so stupid—could you all stand outside of, um, line of sight from the road? I’m trying to hide from my aunt.” 

A small smile touched his lips. “Of course, your majesty.”

Despite the silliness of her request, the knights obeyed, falling into form in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. Ann’s heart slowed from the thrumming wings of a small bird to deep, measured breaths. She closed her eyes again. If she could stay like this until Anne returned this evening, the wait might be bearable.

But from the street on the other side of the building, her aunt’s voice grated in her ears. Even the gentle rush of the stream couldn’t drown it out.

“Elizabeth, I—ugh! Gods, this road is so dirty, how does anyone live here?” her aunt said. A ruffle of fabric followed. “Anyway, I don’t think we should even try them on, do you? Now, where has the girl gone…”

Their conversation faded, and Ann released her breath. The water, warm sun, and guards surrounding her were as calm and safe as one could imagine, yet Ann was a mess of anxiety; she’d gotten used to Anne beside her, shielding her from the torrent of her own worries. What if Anne didn’t come back? What if her family—all, save Elizabeth, reluctant participants in the ceremony—had found a way to ruin it? What if she never got her kingdom back? Where was Ser Tiny, the little dog-thing that was hers to care for?

Ann covered her face with her hands. 

“Shush,” she whispered to herself. “Shh.” 

It helped a little to imagine Anne stepping in front of her, just out of reach, the gentlest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

Gravel crunched in front of her under light steps. Ann reached out and her hand touched warm, soft skin. She gasped and opened her eyes.

“Er, sorry, your majesty,” a small girl said. Her head dipped immediately into a practiced curtsey. “P-princess Sutherland is looking for you. Shall I tell her you’re—?”

Ann fought to keep a flush from her cheeks. 

“I should have known they’d start organizing search parties,” Ann groaned. “Yes, tell them I’m here.”

“Um—sorry, they’ve instructed me to tell you to meet them at the baron’s house. Er—estate, I mean. The servants behind them were carrying dresses,” the girl explained.

“I suppose that’s quite important then, isn’t it?” Ann joked without humor. The child’s smile faltered. “Forgive me. I have terrible nerves,” Ann said. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sure I wasn’t easy to find.”

“Oh, we knew where you were. And that you didn’t want to be found,” the girl said, chipper. “But after awhile, her grace became, um—“