Shoestring Theory

ELEVEN

An hour later, Cyril and Tigris were in a carriage being snuck out of the palace by some Cretian valets in the dead of night. It was just as well that Atticus had such convenient means of egress on standby, as mages were known to teleport their way over long distances whenever –wherever, really – they pleased, but it required quite a clear visual familiarity with the intended destination and Cyril had never actually bothered to commit the neighbouring kingdom’s royal palace to memory.

Also, he felt he desperately needed the time alone, secluded inside the plush upholstered carriage to soothe his nerves.

Tucked into his waistcoat pocket was the second of two letters that Atticus had given him after quickly scribbling them down and sealing them with the Wulfsbane crest. The first one he had parted with moments earlier, having given it to their coach driver along with a handful of coin, also from Atticus.

The letter held instructions to take Cyril Laverre and his familiar to Cretea’s palace as soon as it was read, and to make sure he was comfortable and taken care of. Now, sitting in the comfortable interiors of the private coach with two valets on horseback flanking the vehicle, he was impressed with the efficiency of it all.

Atticus had developed his plan within record timing, the gears in his brain working overtime as he guided Cyril to his desk and explained exactly what they were to do.

When Cyril sought asylum, he did not exactly think much past it. He assumed he would get to Cretea one way or another, and from then, Eufrates would no longer be a threat. It was the same kind of scatter-brained thinking that got him caught in the middle of the night with an unconscious girl in his room by his own aunt.

Atticus was quick to point out that a sudden departure, clandestine at that, by the entirety of his retinue would not be taken kindly. If Eufrates himself did not take offense, his council certainly would. It was a promise of subterfuge, of a threadbare alliance falling apart. If he was going to leave Farsala, it would need to be public, during the daytime, and with significant fanfare and consent of their hosts. He would conjure up a reason to return, express regret that he could not further wait for the results of their search for his fiancée and set out the very next day, perhaps after breaking fast with the court.

Cyril did not need to tell him he would not be permitted to leave with the Cretian retinue. Atticus was one step ahead of him. He showed him the letters he had composed while explaining all this: identical, formally dated and signed, with the same wax seal branded upon the bottom right.

The other letter was addressed to the head butler of Cretea’s palace. They were clear instructions to treat Cyril with the courtesy owed to an honoured guest and the delicacy owed to one seeking sanctuary. Atticus did not explain Cyril’s exact situation in these letters, telling him if he wished to disclose more details, he was free to do so, but the choice was his. He assured Cyril that the head butler was an incredibly kind woman who would welcome him with open arms if she were given the letter. He would have rooms of his own and, if he should wish it, a place in court.

The riskier part of their plan was happening this very moment, with Cyril watching with a stab of longing the retreating figure of the mage tower in the distance as the carriage ventured north. Tigris, next to him, tried to sleep, but was kept awake by her own restlessness.

They were to be spirited away in the witching hour of night so as to pass completely unnoticed. It was not uncommon for Cyril to sleep in, to miss breakfast completely, and it would especially not be unusual for him to be sulking in his new bedchambers, resisting the call to leave and be treated poorly by most every Farsalan courtier in his home. The hope was that his escape would go unnoticed until at least after Atticus himself had left with the rest of his retinue and then there would be nothing Eufrates could do save giving Heléne her old post back.

“You will take my coachman and my carriage. It is a longer drive, but it is more comfortable,” Atticus had said. “From here to my home with no breaks is a six-hour journey. I am sorry to make you travel so late in the evening.”

Cyril then asked how Atticus himself would get back, which awarded him another one of those fond, dashing smiles.

“The ride back is a mere three hours. We are not such big territories, or as far apart, as that. By afternoon, I am sure I will have met up with you once more and we will both be out of the woods.”

He could not believe this man he barely knew was willing to ride three hours on horseback for his sake. He hoped at least the saddle was comfortable.

“Do you think we will be caught?” Cyril asked, eyeing Tigris and then the palace out the back window nervously.

“At two in the morning? Doubtful.”

She seemed a fair bit calmer than he was about this. Then again, it was not she who was being pursued by a madman.

“He is truly a very good man. I do not know how I will repay him.”

Tigris spread her cat form over the seat opposite him in a lazy stretch. “Technically, since you are doing all this on my behest, it will be me who repays him. I shall give him some islands to the east, perhaps.”

Cyril frowned. “You talk about your husband–”

“Fiancé.”

“Yes, that. You talk about him so dispassionately. Were you not moved by his actions?”

“It is a bare minimum of decency. Anyone should have done it.”

“He risks political conflict!”

“I would have done the same.”

Cyril let out a breath of frustration. “Why must you needle the poor man? What has he done to you?”

“Nothing,” she snapped.

There was a pause between them and, when Cyril said nothing, she continued, desperately trying to make sense of herself.

“He does not stir any greater feelings in me, Cy. When he courts me, it is ‘nice’. When we dance, I feel ‘good’. Even when he was showing off all that valour and charm by helping you all I could think was, ‘Oh. Well, there’s a great fellow!’ It is driving me to madness! I think there must be something wrong with me!”

“Nothing is wrong with you, Tig…” He tried his best to sound comforting. “Perhaps you are simply not prone to great fits of passion.”

Without a word of warning, she cartwheeled her small frame across the bench as though her body was made of molten sugar, boneless and aimless. She hit her head against a pillow on the dismount. All the while she did this, she screamed, inside Cyril’s mind and out, letting out a steaming kettle’s worth of frustration.

It startled him, so he pulled his legs up to his chest in case she began clawing at him again.

After some brief hesitation, he leaned in. “What is–”

“I want passion, Cyril!” she blurted. “I have spent years watching my brother compose sonnets for you on the margins of his arithmetic notes. I should like something similar!”

Cyril looked distressed. He had no earthly idea how to deal with this. Perhaps if he had had children or even niblings or godchildren , he’d have some inkling on how to handle her, but this felt like trying to reassure an adolescent in their romantic pursuits. He had spent a decade pining over one man and then he had been swept off his feet less like a damsel in a song and more like a sack of flour at a bakery for morning bread. He was out of his depth. In this, he was wholly an imbecile. Even being married, he had no real advice to give.

Still, he owed it to Tigris to try.

“…I think you would hate a sonnet. I think you would laugh at it.”

She thought about this, and did not deny it. “That’s not the point, though! I would like to be in love!”

“It is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“You are bitter. You make a horrible judge on these matters.”

“And yet you wanted a love like mine?”

“Well!” she said. “Not all of it!”

Cyril slowly built up the courage to reach out and stroke the top of her head.

“Perhaps… an attachment born out of mutual trust is better than passionate love, Tig.”

She rolled her eyes. “An attachment. How depressing. I just wish I felt something .” Her gaze darted from out the window to his face. “Honestly, it feels like you are more enamoured by him than I’ll ever be.”

Cyril blustered, choking on nothing but an acute sense of shame. “I appreciate his kindness ! You must understand, I’ve not experienced it in a while.”

“I’m kind to you.”

“You’ve given me a permanent scar.”

Tigris pouted. “Very well. Continue to moon over my fiancé’s kindness all you wish. But dare I say he is a bit young for you.”

That cut quite deep. Cyril felt his fifty-odd years like a heavy weight over his back.

“You are so cruel,” he whined.

“Should I call you Uncle Cyril?”

He clawed at a pillow next to him on the seat and screamed into it, his turn to resort to hysterics. They seemed to both be going through something that evening.

At least he had somewhat consoled Tigris. She was shaking with laughter when he looked up at her, no longer burdened with the oh-so-miserable idea of wedding a generous, handsome, gregarious king.

That is, until her head shot up from her boneless narrow shoulders.

“Auntie!” she cried.

“Well. I don’t think that would quite work. ‘ Uncley’ , maybe? Actually, when I was a child, I was made to call my father’s brothers ‘tanton’.”

“No, you dolt! We’ve not said a word about this to Auntie!”

Cyril’s jaw fell in a small, panicked ‘ah’, but then he truly considered the wisdom of involving Heléne in his scatterbrain mess ever further than she already was. How shocked she looked when she was booted out of her post, used as a pawn in his husband’s ridiculous crusade to destroy him. She had loved Eufrates too, once.

“…It may be for the best,” he said slowly.

Tigris gave him such a look of singular betrayal it made him want to ask the carriage to be turned around right this instant.

“Wh– but, she will be worried!”

“She is highly intelligent. Tantie will know we’re safe.”

Cyril thought about his aunt. He had thought she had been on the path to recovery once he spoke to her the night of the king and queen’s death. Perhaps she was not to die so soon after all, and he had reversed an injustice he didn’t realise he could’ve saved.

But since their shared plan, aside from helping obfuscate the truth of Tigris’s disappearance, Cyril had seen less and less of his aunt as the days went by. She had gone back to her isolationist ways, high up in her tower with Ganache, a handful of favourite liquors and provisions that would last a lifetime. He had been so absorbed in keeping Tigris secret and safe that he had not noticed the change until he truly looked back on it under a retrospective lens.

On one hand, letting her know might assuage some doubts about their whereabouts, but on the other…

“If she is implicated, Eufrates may press her for information,” Cyril said. “And I know you want to think the best of your brother, but–”

“Cyril, stop. I was in that room. I saw him as well as you did. I do not want him pestering Auntie.”

Cyril nodded.

“I’m sorry. It must be horrible, speaking of him like that.”

“I’m not a fool, though you may think me one .”

He balked at how suddenly and confidently this was said.

“What made you think–?”

“Oh, I do not think it is malicious. You think me too stupid for queendom.”

“I don’t–”

“And I think you too weak for grand magistry.”

Cyril’s mouth hung open like an unmanned puppet’s. He had no idea how he was meant to respond to that, but it seemed he did not need to.

“Which is why I think we will suit one another very well, when we inherit.”

He stared at her a long while, then burst into manic, tearful laughter.

“I am quite serious, Cyril,” she said, very properly. “It will be me, you, Tantie as a counsellor, perhaps Atticus if I am feeling generous.”

“How nice a thought,” he responded with a genuine smile, through dissipating giggles.

“And we shall lock Eufie up in a dungeon where he will think about his crimes, and when he is good and normal again, we let him out!”

Cyril wiped a tear from his eye and reached out again to stroke her head, heart so full he had not felt like this in years.

“I should like that very much, Tig…”

Tigris returned his smile in kind. “Good. Then it will be so.”

Cyril stifled another laugh and lay sideways on the carriage seat, propping his head against one hand and his elbow, like the subject of a languid old painting of a naked fae being hand fed grapes. It felt a bit like an abuse of Cretea’s hospitality towards him, but he was feeling a bit childish at the moment. Especially after the comment on his age.

“You know, I had not thought of what to do after I defeated Eufrates. So much of my old life revolved entirely around him.”

“Defeat?”

He swatted a hand over his face. “You know what I mean.”

“You can do whatever you want. Do you think a lot will change for you?”

“Hm… I can’t think of anything concrete.” He frowned and grasped at the ring hanging at his chest. “I suppose I will die a virgin this time around.”

“Cy–ril!”

She looked rattled, mortified by this new, unbidden information. The corners of Cyril’s lips twitched. He did not realise he could inflict so much damage upon Tigris just by humiliating himself before she ever got her paws on his secrets. Shameless as he was in his old age , he would have to keep this new knowledge in mind for the future.

“You went to school abroad and you’re trying to tell me you’ve only been with one person your entire sad little life?”

Or perhaps there was some humiliation to be had after all. Cyril ran a hand through his hair.

“I was focused on my studies , Tigris. And I have always been an… awkward youth.”

She scoffed and, rather catlike, made herself into a neat loaf to rest easy on the bench.

“I’ll bet you were too busy pining.”

He would not fall into the trap of answering that. He pretended not to hear her and looked out the window, at the rush of trees and wildlife.

She was entirely correct, though.

In truth, Cyril did not need to attend the Academy of Arcane Arts. Not with a private tutor of Heléne Laverre’s calibre at his disposal, grudging though she was to take on such a young pupil. Mages in general had a storied tradition of apprenticeships, especially those who specialised in a single discipline, taking one or two pupils under their wings and shaping them in their youth. The Academy, located in a conveniently neighbouring country, was a fairly recent addition to the annals of arcane history, and it was reserved for the very talented, the very wealthy or, in Cyril’s case, the young mages whose masters thought it unhealthy that their only friends were a cat and a girl who’d shoved them off a swing.

Heléne had seen the lack in Cyril’s life and tried to fix it as best as she could. It was less a failure on her part and more his complete unwillingness to mingle with his peers that made her valiant efforts such an utter waste of good intentions. A young Cyril Laverre spent his school days as a painfully shy, horribly obnoxious teacher’s pet who holed himself up in his dorm studying until his mind felt numb, writing letters to a handsome prince and counting down the days to when he could be carted home again.

Admittedly, it would have helped if his aunt had been clearer with her intentions because Cyril, indulging in yet another one of his anxious little freaks, thought he had been shipped away to be tested . No other mage at the Academy had the burden of future grand mage weighing on their prepubescent shoulders. Cyril genuinely believed he was at the Academy to excel. To prove himself the best and brightest, to outshine any competition he might have, perceived or otherwise. And he soon came to learn there is little children like less in a classmate than a snivelling, antisocial show-off, cementing his wallflower status in something of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

He didn’t entirely begrudge his Academy upbringing, though, despite the friction with his peers. He didn’t really need friendship, not when he had one perfectly good friend at home and one boy whose heart he was desperately attempting to thaw and capture with every brain cell he had to spare that wasn’t studying. Having a variety of different teachers proved enriching in a way Aunt Heléne, with her brutal, spartan ways, fell short of. They also taught him much in the way of magical etiquette, which was something his dear old aunt frequently thumbed her nose at as entirely frivolous. According to her, magic needed etiquette the same way fish needed fresh air (this was one of the kinder things she had said about this method of teaching). Cyril liked these guidelines, though. To him, they made sense. Mages were precious about their spells and snooping in on someone’s pattern was akin to cheating , which in a school environment was akin to manslaughter .

And he realised the fact that he caught himself fondly reminiscing about the finer points of magical contracts and who his favourite professors were was exactly the problem. Maybe if he’d gone out of his way to make connections, he wouldn’t be in a carriage relying on the goodwill of a foreign king he hardly knew. Maybe he’d have fallen for a nice, young wizard who attended his classes, and he would’ve given up the fantasy of a love far above his station. Cyril wondered if, given the chance to do it all over again, knowing what he knew now, he would’ve given up on Eufrates.

Perhaps without a cooperative, magically gifted spouse, King Eufrates Margrave would’ve had a harder time making a mess of Farsala. Cyril reminded himself of the hand to his throat, the grip on his waist, the dark, hateful eyes that speared through him like an arrow through the heart.

He told himself very firmly, very convincingly, that yes, of course, he would’ve given up. And then he forced himself to believe it in the same way a child is forced to take medicine.

Tigris was quiet for a while longer before she finally spoke again, both of them having dropped the pretence of ever falling asleep that night.

“I am sorry. I was being very selfish, regarding Atticus. He is a nice man. I should not be so harsh.”

Cyril’s head tilted. “I don’t think it’s selfish to want to be in love.”

“Oh, yes it is. I am to be queen. You think I do not know this, but it has plagued me since my nursery days.”

“You assume I think a lot of things about you, Tig.”

“Hush.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly sober and intense. She was taking the measure of him, but he did not know what for. Not until she began talking and he realised he was privy to a confessional.

“It feels as though I had made an unspoken pact with Papa and Mam?. I would be as wilful as I wished during my youth, but when it came time to inherit, there were to be no complaints, so I made the most of it. Did you know I pushed you off of that swing on purpose?”

Cyril blinked. The latter comment seemed such a non-sequitur he instantly honed in.

“Excuse me?”

“When you first came. I convinced you to let me push you on the swing set, because I thought it would be fun. That was my main motivation as a child: fun. But I thought you looked so very frail with your blonde hair and your big eyes, so when I saw you sitting on the edge of that seat, flying ever higher, looking quite afraid, I wondered what might happen if I pushed you off. So I did. It was not particularly satisfactory, I’ll be honest. I expected more gore.”

He stared at her because he could do little else. “You are trying to tell me you are not right in the head.”

“What child is, Cy? I am trying to tell you that, until very recently, I did whatever I wanted. I pushed a child off a swing out of morbid curiosity, I went spelunking and nearly got my brother killed, I decorated my room how I wanted, I did sword training drills with the guard, I won a jousting tournament, I wore obscene, flamboyant things to foreign events, I went on a tour through the continent on my eighteenth birthday. I was a spoiled, obstinate princess, and it suited me just fine. Nobody truly complained, because everyone knew when it was time to be serious, I would shut my mouth and do it.

“It is what I have been prepared for my entire life, after all. I cannot picture anything else. I have a sworn duty to my kingdom and, more importantly, to my family. I was, after all, to make sure my soft-hearted princeling of a brother never saw even a gram of power in all his days.”

“That wasn’t your fault, if this is what this is about.”

“It’s not. I know I can’t change what happened to me… what happened to you . But marrying Atticus has been my very first taste of duty and… I am finding it difficult to swallow.”

“Call it off, then,” he said. “You are queen. You can do what you want.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you did everything your heart desired during your tenure as grand mage.”

Cyril glared at her. “I am sure Atticus would not be so offended.”

“I’ve no reason to call it off aside from a feeling . It would not be proper,” she sighed and looked down at her paws. “Mam? especially was so keen on the match.”

Ah, he thought. Tigris understood the look he gave her either way.

He did not want her thinking about their deaths. Especially not when he already felt so sick with guilt that he did not think to send himself back far enough to stop Rohan and Micaela from boarding that ship in the first place, so obsessed was he with foiling his husband at any cost.

Instead of continuing the thread of conversation, Cyril looked around himself and grabbed a pillow to prop under his elbow, which was beginning to sore.

“This is a bit like a sleepover, isn’t it?”

Tigris smiled. “Just like the old days! Oh, I do wish I could braid your hair. Did you keep it long in the future, too?”

“Frightfully. Not many hairdressers or scissors to be had.”

“I will never be used to not having hands. What day did you say I died again?”

“I didn’t.” He racked his brain for long-forgotten information. It had been so many years. He found, however, he could still remember the exact date of her death if he truly put some effort into it, like deep-cleaning a house. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for a particularly good reason. Cyril cringed. “The eleventh of August.”

Tigris looked actually wounded . He even heard one of her rare mewls. “That’s four days after my birthday! I will have to spend my twenty-seventh as a cat!?”

“Afraid so.”

“I don’t want to!” she wailed, and he felt genuinely sorry for her. Especially when she was having such difficulty adapting, according to her incessant complaints about the body.

“I will personally throw you the grandest party once you are yourself again.” He eyed her up and down. “Are you still having trouble being Shoestring?”

“I… well, Cy, I’m sure it’s not your cat in particular, but it just doesn’t feel comfortable .”

Cyril’s brow knit together, and he leaned in to take a closer look. “It is unusual for a transmutation to be so disturbing. Perhaps it is because it’s a magical body.”

“Whatever it is, it’s awful. I feel like a parasite. It’s like the body is trying to rid itself of me.”

“How strange. It should be empty. It is empty, I’ve checked. Has it gotten worse?”

“…It ebbs and flows, I think. It’s weird. Now, it’s not so bad.”

He sat up and tucked a knee into his chest, holding up his chin in one hand in rapt interest. “Curious. I shall have to examine it later.”

“Gods, I wish you wouldn’t sound so keen on it. Feels like you’ll put me on a slab.”

He coughed. “I… would never do that.”

“Oh, yes, Cy, I feel perfectly safe with you around to look after me.”

Cyril raised a hand as though taking an oath. “I swear on my life I will not examine you if you do not wish it.” A pause. “But it might help.”

Tigris hissed at him and hopped to sit diagonal, the farthest she could from where he was.

He raised his other hand, this time in surrender. “I am joking. Truly.”

It was high time he steered the conversation yet again to somewhere where he wasn’t risking a clawing with every word. Upon looking out the window and spotting one of the valets who was accompanying the coach, a man who seemed to be bored at having to keep up with such a glacial pace, he leaned against the small glass window to look more intently at the scenery.

“You lived in Cretea for some time, didn’t you?” he asked her.

She cocked her head. “So did you.”

It took him a while to realise what she meant. “Oh! Farol! Tig, Farol is a little seaside shipyard with a population to rival the turnaround of a small street performance. I mean the capital. The palace.”

“Ah. Yes, that’s right. When I was a princess, it was expected I would relocate there until it was time to inherit.”

Cyril tried for a smile. “You will have to show me around. I have never been.”

“It’s quite beautiful. I hope we are allowed to go into town.”

He leaned in, almost conspiratorial, and looked at her with a very serious countenance. “How is the food?”

Tigris burst into giggles. “You will love it!”