Shoestring Theory

TEN

Tigris happened to live a reasonable trek away, in the west wing – the other side of the palace. He had never understood why brother and sister had chosen to room so far apart from one another when they were otherwise glued at the hip in childhood, but Cyril had never had any siblings of his own. He barely had a family.

The far end of the west wing housed Tigris’s opulent bedroom, which Cyril remembered as a love letter to bright colours, fashionable decor and a permanent state of disarray, no matter how many brave maids ventured inside. Guest rooms flanked the path to the princess’s on either side. One of these in particular was where Tigris led Cyril in the dead of night, under cover of darkness like a cloak-and-dagger spy.

“What if he is not awake?” Cyril asked.

“We rouse him. What is wrong with you, Cy?”

They had discussed what they would say to Atticus on their way across the palace. To an onlooker, it would seem like Cyril was frantically whispering to himself. A madman. If there had been any spectators to their conversation, any nobles on a midnight stroll or guards on overnight duty, it would do no favours for Cyril’s already languishing standing with the court.

“I simply do not know if I should be- – be dropping all this on a man. A grieving man! It is too much to ask.”

Tigris sniffed. “It is the least he can do as my future husband.”

“Yes, see, that’s exactly it! You are his fiancée. I am nothing to him–”

“You are my dear friend!”

“It would help, surely, if we told him about your situation!”

“Atticus is a generous man. He does not need to know all the details in order to help.”

“Just – Tig, it would make this so much easier,” he pleaded.

“I’ve said no. It is my secret to keep, and I do not wish to tell him. Perhaps in future, but right now my priority is getting you out of here .”

Cyril grumbled under his breath, “I should have just knocked you unconscious and stuffed you in a closet…”

“Are you going to call for him, or shall I?”

With a disgruntled sigh, Cyril knocked on the door to the guest room. He waited an appropriate amount of time to knock again, confident the king would be fast asleep at this hour, but the courtesy was unnecessary. Within moments, he heard footfalls making their way to open the door.

Atticus looked very surprised to see him, which was a middling start. He could have been annoyed.

“Your Majesty,” Cyril said, and bowed so low and so quickly that his hair cascaded over his shoulders in a mess of flax. “Forgive me for disturbing you at this time of night.”

Instantly, he felt a solid, steadying hand on his shoulder. Cyril peeked up through his fringe to see that Atticus was looking down at him with concern.

“Laverre, please. I have told you to call me Atticus.”

He was wearing thin, square reading glasses and had tell-tale ink stains on the tips of his fingers that indicated he’d been in the middle of writing something down. He also somehow looked the picture of propriety, despite being dressed only in silk sleeping trousers and a loosely done robe that exposed the better part of his chest. Cyril felt a flush and set his gaze back firmly on the floor.

“I am sorry. Atticus. I am… I seek aid.”

Atticus lightly squeezed his shoulder to push him back to standing at full height. He doffed his glasses and stuck them to a pocket upon his breast. When he took a step back inside the guest room, Cyril was certain he was going to slam the door on his nose, but he merely stepped to the side and gestured inside.

“Friend, you look frightful. Please, come in.”

Cyril glanced briefly at Tigris, who gave him a nod. They were ushered into the room.

The King of Cretea sat Cyril on a grand armchair that made him feel like a child and made him wait while he brewed what he had called a ‘Wulfsbane specialty’ with an assortment of cookery instruments laid out on a table. The drink turned out to be mostly melted dark chocolate, heated with cream and spiced with cinnamon, citrus zest and, curiously, crushed peppers. Atticus meticulously poured a layer of milk froth over it as though he was some sort of kindly tavern owner and not the ruler of a sovereign nation.

Cyril eyed it with suspicion, certain it would be much too heavy a beverage. He was wrong. Before he knew it, he had downed half a cup before Tigris hopped up onto his lap and shoved her head against his wrist, demanding to partake. He blew over the mug before sharing with her.

“Gods, I love this thing. It’s worth marrying him for.”

Cyril was inclined to agree.

Atticus cocked an eyebrow at the pair.

“Is he… safe to drink that?” he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

“Oh!” Cyril placed the cup on a nearby table and Tigris leapt up onto it to lap up the rest of the chocolate. “Oh, yes, he’s not a real cat. Familiars do not suffer food poisoning, I don’t think.”

“Ah. How enviable. I myself am mildly allergic to tree nuts.”

It took him a moment for Cyril to realise the king was making a small talk . He had delivered it with such a serious expression, but it was clearly meant as a distraction for Cyril’s sake.

Cyril did manage a nervous giggle. “You must be having a hard time out here, then.”

“Indeed. The south is known for its chestnut delicacies. I cannot partake, but they smell wonderful.”

He felt another bubble of mirth erupt from his chest and, with it, the steadying of the hummingbird beat of his heart.

As he calmed down, he took in the guest room Atticus was settled in. He had been here for weeks now. Enough time that he had customized the space to show a glimpse of his personality.

There were books that did not seem to come from within the palace’s library lined in no particular order on a small shelf. From the spines, they seemed to delve into the most eclectic of subjects. Potions, psychology, mathematics, a recent weather almanac and an astronomy chart. Regardless of the mix, it didn’t seem as though Atticus held much love for fiction.

A table near the shelf held an assortment of equipment Cyril had just recently seen Atticus use. There was what looked to be a portable burner and a grill, a few pots, pans, beakers and vials. He had seen Atticus pull ingredients from a cabinet underneath the table, but he could not tell what exactly was within, other than bars of rich chocolate and jars of spices and candied fruit peels.

Next to that was a writing desk, which was clearly where Atticus had been before he had been interrupted. A quill dipped in fresh ink sat propped up against a paperweight, and it seemed the king had closed a journal over a letter he was writing. This was quite smart. Cyril did not want to snoop, but he was sure his eyes would wander if he neared the table, and he was sure it was merely the business affairs of a temporarily absent sovereign.

Most guest chambers were outfitted with comfortable plush blankets and upholstery, especially in the colder half of the year, but Atticus had clearly stripped his own room bare, save for a thin duvet and a couple of throw blankets for the sake of decor. He kept the blinds on the large windows pulled halfway down, and overall seemed to revel in cool shade.

Even the way he was dressed sent a shiver through Cyril. He could not imagine wandering shirtless this early in May.

“Oh, goodness,” Atticus interrupted his scan of the room, sounding like he’d just remembered something. Then, he pulled the robe he wore tighter to his chest and knotted its belt. “I’m sorry, Laverre. I am quite indecent.”

Cyril coloured all over again, and despite the cup being empty, he took it into his hands to have something to bring up to cover his face. “No! Do not worry yourself, I am the one who knocked at your door at such an unseemly hour.”

“Why are you flustered? I thought you were married for over twenty years.”

Cyril shot Tigris a glare and she sniffed and hopped back over to the arm of his chair.

Atticus watched them in polite curiosity and Cyril stiffened in his seat.

“Excuse my familiar. He has never been given to delicacy. I meant to chastise him for drinking so quickly.”

“Not at all! Perhaps I should have made two mugs.” He stepped closer. “Are you feeling any better now, though?”

“Ah…” As a matter of fact, he was. The drink and the light chatter had done wonders. “I am. Thank you.”

Atticus nodded and his gaze turned serious. “So… what kind of aid am I to provide?”

“You do not have to agree to it, Atticus. You’ve not even heard what I have to say.”

“I will always be happy to help a friend of Tigris’s.”

Cyril avoided looking at the cat at his side, who he knew was sure to be casting him a smug little smile.

“Well… it concerns Eufrates.”

Atticus’s brows rose. “The young regent? He is quite fond of you, is he not?”

He would have to do something about the colour this man drew from his cheeks. It was becoming untenable.

“He… I had thought so, yes.”

“He was quite passionate when he named you the new grand mage.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright. He was a spectacle. I will not be offended if you say it.”

Atticus hid a chuckle behind one hand. “It was not how I would have gone about it, no. But why have you come to me? Surely not for romantic advice, though I would gladly be willing to part with it.”

Cyril shook his head. “No. I would not dare trouble you over something so trivial.”

“It is not trivial–”

“Please,” he interrupted. He had worked up quite a bit of nerve coming here, and Atticus’s open generosity was making him lose it. He would feel endlessly guilty burdening this man. “Please, allow me.”

Atticus was silent for a moment before he nodded and pulled a chair from where it was tucked under his writing desk. He placed it in front of Cyril and sat across from him, eye level. The way he looked at Cyril made him feel like a scared, lost creature.

“Forgive me. Do go on, Laverre.”

“…Cyril is fine.”

Atticus smiled warmly. “Cyril, then.”

He was not the maestro his husband was, but he had run through this story enough times in his head on the way to the west wing that he had started to convince himself of its plausibility.

“I was happy, at first, when Eufrates asked to be closer to me. We have always gotten along. But when I went to see him earlier tonight, he… he is not himself.”

“What do you mean? I am unfortunately not as familiar with the younger sibling.”

“As I mentioned, we were good friends, but once we were finally alone, he acted strangely. He was not himself. I fear Eufrates has become insensible. He had never wanted any inheritance but for perhaps a plot of land of his own, so I am sure it has come as a great shock that he is now regent. As well, he worries about Tigris.”

“As do I.”

Cyril nodded. “Yes, of course, but… the way he has been affected. I know you are an outsider to our traditions, but it is highly unusual for the grand mage to leave the central tower. I genuinely thought he wanted my help, but I’m afraid it was more calculated than that. He is a phenomenal performer, after all. I think he believes I have something to do with his sister’s disappearance, and he has vowed to torment it out of me.”

It was much easier to twist a few truths than to conjure up an entire lie out of nothing. Cyril was telling Atticus what he needed him to know.

He did not, however, expect the king’s expression to darken so immediately.

“ Did you have some involvement in it?”

Cyril blinked. He was wholly unprepared to be scrutinised. Obviously, though, he had made a grave mistake. He came to Atticus expecting a kindly, generous mentor who was willing to help him, but he could be all these things and still not be a fool . It was a perfectly reasonable question to ask.

From behind him, Tigris hissed (at Atticus or at him, he wasn’t quite sure), which snapped him out of his muteness.

“I – no, I assure you!” He was, perhaps, too impassioned, but he had waited too long to respond. “I loved Tigris as family, but if the rumours are true, I would not help her cause such uproar. You must believe me.”

Atticus stared at him for a long while and then he let out a deep, exhausted sigh. Without a word of warning, he reached up to pat Cyril on the head, like he was soothing an animal.

“I’m sorry, Cyril. I am just as worried about my bride, so I cannot be too careful. I did not mean to scare you, though.”

Cyril thought he might cry. He was this close to having two men trying to kill him over a girl. It was a situation so bizarre to him it made his head spin.

“You believe me?”

Atticus nodded. “I had my servants check your quarters, if you’ll remember. You have not been concealing her and I do not believe you capable of foul play.”

“…Thank you, Atticus.” He could feel a sting of tears welling up that he blinked away. He did not expect this level of trust from a stranger. He hoped Tigris saw now how lucky she was.

Atticus removed the hand from his hair and leaned back in his seat. “This brings us back to the beginning, though. What would you have me do?”

This was it. This was where Tigris ’s idea came in. He reached over almost absently to stroke her back.

“Asylum. I am seeking asylum from Cretea, at least until Eufrates has regained his senses.”

Atticus looked stunned for a moment. “It is that dire a matter?”

“Yes. Removing me from the tower has put me at his mercy. I’ve no other choice but to flee the courts altogether. I thought… as Tigris’s fiancé, you would be willing to help me.” He swallowed convulsively. It was time to play the trump. “She had always said you were a kind man.”

“Oh, good work, Cy.”

He so wished she would stop making interruptions. He was going to lose focus.

Atticus’s face softened even further, if possible, and he flashed him a small, reassuring smile.

“It would put me at odds with the current Regent of Farsala, as you know.”

“Like I said, you are under no obliga–”

“Calm down, Cyril. I did not say I would not do it. I am trying to think of the best way about it.”

He was agog. “You will help me?”

“Even if you were not well loved by Tigris, I could not stand here and do nothing after what you have confided.” The smile crooked into a small, secretive grin. “I have always wanted to play the dashing hero.”

Cyril laughed, his first genuine one of the evening. “I am not much of a damsel, I’m afraid.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit. You look the very picture of someone worth saving.”

Said by anyone else, Cyril would think it a cruel remark. Atticus made it sound like a genuine compliment.

Atticus extended a hand and Cyril took it, sheepish. They stood together and Atticus walked them over to the desk where he took out a fresh sheet of paper and a quill.

“Here is how we will do things.”