Shoestring Theory

TWELVE

As most sleepovers with Tigris went, they did not sleep a wink that entire night. Normally, it was because she made a challenge out of it, keeping him, Eufrates and sometimes a brave courtier’s child or two she had made friends with awake hours on end with cards, gossip, secrets and late-night excursions to the kitchens. She made her brother, eyes heavy with sleep, invent stories and entertain with song, and she made Cyril, who actually wasn’t too bothered about being kept awake (the way he did it to himself night after night in fits of useless neurosis) conjure up as many magical delights as he could until his arms were spent from weaving so long and Tigris set her attention on another distraction.

Truly, everything had been very intense when it involved Tigris. It was like she was pursuing extreme, reckless sport in all aspects of life. After what she had confided in him, he supposed it made sense. She was wild and daring and she was to be confined into a pretty little cage, fit for a queen.

He felt even guiltier about turning her into a cat now he understood how frightened she was of getting her agency taken away. He was sure she would have loved nothing more than to confront Eufrates herself. Get him in a chokehold and throw him to the gallows with her brute strength. He was sure she could do it.

He could not risk it. He would continue to keep her close and stunted until it was safe not to, and if she wished to be mad about it later, he would gladly accept punishment.

Cyril had lived very long and had done very little. Tigris’s life was a thousand times more precious than his had amounted to.

This time, though, it was not a sleepover by choice . They had both bravely attempted slumber throughout different times of night, in different positions, with different configurations of pillows. Cyril had even attempted to lie facing up on the floor of the carriage and breathe slowly in and out like an old physician had once taught him. The physician had been sent in after Cyril had a fit that left him gasping when he was eleven.

It did nothing to calm the war drum of his heart. He felt even the valets outside could hear it. It thrummed loud in his ears and, lying on the floor like this, the very vehicle seemed to shake with each erratic palpitation.

And if Cyril’s poison was ravenous anxiety, he could tell by the way Tigris prowled around the same two feet of cushioning with raised shoulders that hers was adrenaline. She was wired, wracked with energy she could not expend save for haphazardly throwing herself around the seat. It did not feel like enough. Cyril thought she might curl into a ball and bounce herself off the walls, rattling the carriage and startling the poor coachman in the process. Instead, she stared out the window, eyes wide and pupils narrowed, with her ears perked up so high he thought they might detach from her head.

Occasionally, they would keep themselves distracted by chattering about trifling things, or playing traveling games like pointing out what one spied out the window. But for the most part, they sat in silence with their own personal ailments wreaking through their bodies.

So, in the end, they reached Cretea just before the dawn with nary a wink slept between them. Cyril could tell his eyes were blotched with the deep violet of insomnia. Not to mention he had not had time to remove his makeup, so it felt congealed on his face. He would not be making an excellent first impression with this head butler.

Bathed in the golden light of dawn, Cretea’s capital and royal palace cut a beautiful silhouette out of the sky. It was opulent and regal in a way that surprised Cyril, who had lived in a palace himself most his life. But there was something about Cretea’s architecture that conveyed a bit more refinement, if a little heavy-handed.

Where he was used to solid stone-brick walls there was now smoothed marble, carved into patterns that he could not imagine would weather the test of time, save for constant maintenance. High windows in wrought iron frames were replaced by stunning glasswork of many shades of blues and violets, their frame painted a sleek silver tone. While the palace in Farsala was built up , with its coppery rooftops for towers and high attics, the building he was about to step into spread out in seemingly endless expansion. At some point in the distant past, Atticus’s ancestors had gained their lion’s share of land, and they had used up every corner of it.

The ceilings, once he was ushered inside, were higher than he was used to. Dappled with pillars on either side that met in satisfying arches, equally carved out of that pristine marble, he felt as though he was looking at an interactive work of art. All the flooring of the palace was wooden as well, as opposed to only the main rooms, which he was sure would take a king’s army to maintain, but that allowed for his heels to make satisfying clicks as he stepped. In Farsala, the floors were patterned stonework. Beautiful mosaics, the envy of any foreign dignitary, but quite cold to walk upon, especially on bare feet when making a late-night run somewhere.

Cyril was suddenly regretful he had not visited Cretea during the alliance. He had been too love blind to leave the palace.

He was finally led to an ornate grand foyer. He could have had Tigris follow behind him, but he insisted on carrying her in his arms like a babe. A sense of security in these foreign lands. It gave him something to do with his arms as well.

The head butler and caretaker of the palace was a woman of some years. She introduced herself as Ma?tresse Miranda.

Miranda was one of the most stunning women he had ever seen, but he would not wager a single cent that her main employment was keeping care of a palace. Built like a watchtower: tall, solid, stalwart, she felt as though she’d be more at ease as a sell-sword in a far-off tavern or a huntress in the thick of the woods.

She had chestnut hair with streaks of grey, tied into a braid and pinned atop her head and she wore a conservative dress of all sepia, like a faded portrait. She towered over Cyril by at least a head and a half, and he was sure she could fit three of him in her width.

He set Tigris down and tried to get his fingers to stop trembling when he handed her the stamped letter. If she did not find it satisfactory, he had no doubt he would be secreted away to a dungeon cell by her strength alone.

“Is she not extraordinary!”

Cyril’s nerves were temporarily broken by the trill of enthusiasm that rang loud in his head. He snapped his gaze over to Tigris and her eyes were aglow. He could not say anything, not in front of Miranda, without sounding like an untrustworthy loon, but he arched a brow at her.

“Oh, Cyril, I am sure you will like Ma?tresse Miranda. I am so happy to see her again!”

A flash of realisation sparked into his mind as jolting as being electrocuted. He thought back, way back, to all his memories of Tigris. Specifically, of her many dalliances, all of which he had learned about completely against his will.

There was that stocky, young knight trainee with the premature beard. There was a baron from a kingdom up, up, up in the north, who entertained himself by seeing how many kegs of ale he could lift. There was Lady Aura, one of their hunting friends, who he once saw eat a fresh rabbit raw just to see if it would taste any good. There was the stable hand with powerful arms, who rode so well he could do jumping tricks off one horse to another.

He could go on, but the conclusion was the same. Tigris had a type , and it was not charming, kind, reasonable Atticus.

Tigris did not want to be complemented in her ferocity, she wanted to be matched . Which seemed odd to him, but at the same time so very like her. Formidable.

If she indeed broke off her engagement, he vowed to himself he would dedicate the rest of his life to scouring the ends of the earth for a more suitable match. He would look upon other planes of existence if that is what it took. It was what she deserved.

He noticed that, while he was staring intently at his cat, Ma?tresse Miranda had said something to him. Several things. How fantastic it was that he had already behaved churlishly to his new hosts.

He rubbed sleep (and some flakes of kohl) from his eyes and looked up at her.

“Please, forgive me. The ride here was overtaxing, and I could not sleep. Would you mind repeating yourself?”

If she was insulted, she hid it very well behind the cultivated facade of stoicism.

“Of course.” Her voice was deep, but it had a practiced soothe to its cadence. “Young Master Cyril, I had known of your arrival. I received a pigeon some hours ago from His Majesty, so the letter was a mere formality. It was in order to confirm your identity, which it has. I had inquired as to whether you would prefer to eat or bathe first. But perhaps you would rather sleep?”

He was starving. But there was a layer of grime upon his skin that felt like it bore through to his very bones.

“The bath, please. You are very kind to ask.”

She nodded. “Think nothing of it. His Majesty should be back home by mid-afternoon. He will have matters to attend to, but you will be able to sup together if you wish.”

“I would not monopolise his time.”

“He has requested it.”

“Oh,” he said, intelligently.

He was led to his new chambers, which he had presumed to be in the servants’ quarters. Atticus mentioned employing mages in passing, and even after being reassured this wasn’t the case, he still had the feeling in his gut for no reason other than an excess of caution that he was to be treated like staff. But as they made their way through the halls and up a flight of stairs to the second and only other floor in the palace, it dawned on Cyril that he was being treated as an honoured guest, not an inconvenient refugee.

The room was sumptuous, just as lavish as any guest chambers in Farsala. There was a lush bed down the middle of it that looked remarkably inviting after a night of restlessness. To one side, by a large oaken writing desk, there was an unlit fireplace, ready to be stoked if the room’s new southern occupant found the spring chill a bit too much for him. A wardrobe opposite it made Cyril realise he had left his home without any clothes or belongings of his own.

“I shall leave fresh linens and a change of clothes ready for you once you are done, young Master Cyril”, Miranda said as though reading his mind.

“Thank you.” He nodded in awkward assent, and soon was left alone with Tigris to explore the room in more depth. The air was fragrant, perfumed by candles and dried, scented flowers. He smelled a warm smell of vanilla and pinewood.

It was augmented even more when he finally set foot into the white tile of the ensuite. He shucked his clothes immediately (Tigris left him to his modesty, not as desperate for a bath when cats were so naturally well-groomed) and dunked his whole body into a perfectly tempered warm bath. Had it not been for the growl in his stomach, he would have been perfectly content soaking away the dirt of his travels until his fingers pruned, but given how ravenous he found himself, he towelled himself off as soon as he had scrubbed away a sufficient amount of grime to feel clean again.

The clothes they had lent him were plain, simple, but well-made. They would fit anyone’s tastes in a desperate situation, but Cyril instantly missed the theatrics of his own everyday garb. The outfit was the same sepia tone Miranda wore, seemingly a staple colour in court, but while he found it complimented her complexion, on his own coppery skin it made him look a bit washed out. He was also devoid of any of his paints or kohl, so he would have to show up to the dining hall barefaced. There was a vulnerability he had not expected to feel being stripped of his costuming.

He pinned his hair back with a ribbon he found while perusing through the drawers and led by his gut and the smell of roasting meat, found his way to where he would be served his early luncheon.

It was technically a breakfast, but it was too late to be considered as such. Regardless of what it was, Cyril was very intent on having it. He was served a platter piled high with eggs, sausage, cuts of beef, a block of mild cheese, cooked greens and creamy mashed potatoes. It seemed they did not know what his dietary preferences were, so they were just giving him whatever was available.

Tigris was right. The food was quite good. It had a heartiness that Farsalan cuisine lacked, in favour of its temperate good weather and abundance of fresh produce that could easily be eaten raw.

For dessert, he was given fresh fruit – apples, grapes, berries – and the most exquisite pastries. He should have stopped after the first, but he felt compelled to try everything they served him. Farsala had a healthy tradition of cakes and sugary breads, egg-based golden with candied and dried fruits, but they were all very simple. Delicious, but not terribly good-looking.

He marvelled at the presentation of these Cretian pastries. He tasted lighter, more unusual flavours like almond, rosewater and anis seeds. They were often decorated with shavings of citrus or fresh cut fruit.

Beside him, Tigris was just as engrossed in her little feast. He wondered at how so much food could fit into such a skinny cat, but she was clearly making it work. He saw one of the maids give her a curious look and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin to intervene in any suspicion of animal cruelty.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s a familiar. Not real.”

He thought he might need to offer up more explanation, but she parted her lips with an understanding ‘ah’ and nodded.

“We see many familiars in the palace. I have never seen one eat that much. Some I have not seen eat at all.”

Of course. They must be used to mages. Cyril smiled at her. “They don’t normally need to eat, no. Shoestring is quite the glutton.”

This earned him a glare from Tigris, who was face deep into a bowl of mousse. He smiled very sweetly at her and forked another pastry onto his plate before she could get at them.

The lightly perfumed air lulled him to sleep and he was finally beginning to feel the build of exhaustion press down on his frame. Ill-advised though it was, Cyril collapsed onto his new bed as soon as he made it back to the room, immediately falling unconscious.

He had meant to wait for Atticus’s arrival, but he was sure there were many hours still until he returned, and more still until it was time for supper. So he slept a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke sometime later, Tigris was curled up on the pillow next to his like a great big dome of cat. He pretended Shoestring was back, only for a little while, before he roused himself properly and went to greet his saviour.

Tigris would have found a way to make him see stars if he dared exclude her from anything important, so he managed to drag her out of bed and with him through the halls.

It was a surprise how few servants he saw bustling about, despite the place being kept spotless. And the ones he did see were silent and overtly polite. He was used to the sneaking gossip of the Farsala staff. This palace, working as it did like a well-oiled machine, gave him just a hint of gooseflesh.

He supposed he would have to get used to it.

They were led through several doors to a smaller, more private dining hall than the one Cyril had taken his first meal in. The table fit six, perhaps eight people. Then, he was informed the king would be with them shortly. For whatever reason this made him terribly self-conscious. He snuck a look at one of the dessert spoons, reflecting his own face back at him, and spied to make sure he still looked half-decent even without his paints. He had not expected to dine with Atticus alone.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Tigris had positioned herself at the seat by his right side as though she had every reason in the world to also have a seat at the table. Upon being caught in his own vanity, Cyril’s eyes went very wide, and he coloured.

“I am–”

He was excused from explaining himself by the sound of a great door being opened, and boot heels on wood floor.

From what he had heard, Atticus had arrived several hours prior, mid-afternoon, after a hard ride through the country. Cyril was sure the man needed to see to his affairs, catch up on his rule, decompress, but he was dying to know how his escape had gone over. It was eating him alive.

When Atticus entered the room, Cyril sat up ramrod straight and nodded, to show his respect.

Atticus behaved more casually when in his own territory. Gone were the overdressed, button-up suits, replaced with fine silk shirts under a loose jacket, decorated, but effortless. He did not look slovenly , not at all. But he looked home . Cyril could appreciate this.

He had been smiling when he entered the room, but as soon as he clapped eyes on Cyril they widened first, then shuttered in blank confusion for a moment.

Cyril shyly raised a hand in a short wave.

“Atticus. Did you have a nice journey back?”

His face seemed to split into a relieved smile, then furrowed in consternation immediately after.

“Oh, gods, Cyril! I almost didn’t recognise you!”

Atticus crossed the room in a few steps and, rather than taking a seat at the head of the table as Cyril had expected, he took his left side, the space unoccupied by Tigris.

“Whatever happened to the little jester who charmed me so at that dinner?!” He laughed.

Cyril instantly felt his entire face burst into flames. To hide this self-inflicted immolation, he looked down very intently at his empty plate and spoke in a very small voice.

“I… we left in such a rush yesternight, I was not able to bring my paints with me.”

To his mortification, when he glanced upwards, he found Atticus had leaned in to examine his naked face more closely. He had a pensive hand under his chin.

“Hm. I think it rather suits you. You look quite refreshing like this, Cyril. But if you would like, I can send someone into town tomorrow to get you whatever paints you request.”

He snapped his head up. “Oh, no! That isn’t necessary. If I find myself missing the makeup very dearly, I am sure I can venture out on my own.”

Atticus furrowed his brow in consternation. “Still. I shall assign you an escort for day trips. It would be a waste of an escape plot if I could not keep you safe now .”

“Cy, I am begging you to stop flirting with my fiancé and just ask him if you are in any danger.”

He had relaxed enough that his complexion had evened but this coloured it once again. He resisted the urge to shoot Tigris a desperate, sour look, lest their host notice how strangely he was acting.

Cyril cleared his throat. “In any case, what happened after I left? Was there… did anyone notice? Did they trouble you? Did you have to escape as well?”

Atticus put a reassuring hand on his shoulder just as a couple of servants brought in cloches of food. He stiffened, once again sitting up very straight. The last thing he needed was another court thinking him some kind of sultry enchanter that ensorcelled powerful men.

“You do not need to worry yourself about me. I am a foreign dignitary and a king. Even if they suspected me of something, there would be no lawful reason to keep me. I was free to leave whenever I wanted.”

“But…” Cyril urged, sensing there must be some sort of catch.

Atticus squeezed his shoulder and his eyes sparked with amusement. “There are no ‘but’s, dear Cyril! Everything was fine. When I left, they had not yet noticed your disappearance.” He chuckled under his breath. “You’ve a very nervous temper, but I assure you everything is fine. You are free to stay in my palace as long as you wish.”

“Did Euf– Did the regent not say anything, then?” He did not notice, but he had leaned close, hands gripping the linen of the tablecloth in rapt anticipation for news about Eufrates.

Atticus’s smile split into an impish, conspiratorial grin and he leaned back in his own seat looking quite proud of himself.

“Oh, I am sure he felt some unrest, but I distracted him!” While he spoke, he lifted both their cloches to reveal a steamy plate of gratinated potatoes and a healthy serving of thinly sliced duck breast. He did not need to look at Tigris to know her eyes had bugged out on her face. “Shall I ask for another portion? Or will your familiar be sharing yours?”

Cyril eyed Tigris, who gave him a slight, desperate nod and he smiled back at Atticus. “I’m terribly sorry to inconvenience your staff, but Shoestring has found a taste for Cretian cuisine.”

Once Tigris was finally served and they had begun eating (he could get used to the food here, he thought), Cyril not-too subtly tried to steer the conversation back into the burning need – he had to know what happened.

“You said you distracted Eufrates?”

Atticus’s eyes lit up, clearly excited to talk about their shared subterfuge. “Oh, yes! I did not want him looking about for you, especially not if you were still on the road and not within my borders, so first thing in the morning I visited his chambers.

“He was quite groggy, so very easy to push around, so to speak. As a new regent, I assured him he would need my expert advice. I am sure I exhausted the man’s ear talking to him of politics. I insisted it was quite urgent as I had received a report late last night that required my immediate attention back in Cretea this very day!

“I monopolised him all breakfast, most of the rest of the morning, and by the time I took leave I am sure his head was so swimming with needlessly convoluted matters of state that he didn’t have a thought to spare for his beleaguered young mage.”

While listening to this, Cyril’s own smirk threatened to show upon his lips. Atticus had no way of knowing this, but he had not been dangling around a youthful, clueless new ruler who had gone just a bit mad after the disappearance of his sister. He had toyed with a man of some years, by now an expert in his own right in manipulation. He was sure Eufrates needed a lecture in politics as much as he needed a blow to the head, but he had humoured King Atticus out of what was sure to be a carefully constructed act to fool all around him. It gave Cyril no small amount of satisfaction that playing the innocent had backfired so strongly on his husband in this particular situation.

“I am sure you left him quite bereft,” he said.

“Indeed. He would still be trying to remember all the names I assured him were crucial to memorise by the time I was halfway back here.”

“I am sorry I took your carriage.”

“Nonsense! I practically shoved you inside it. I’m sure the fresh air and sun did some good to my complexion, as well. I am much too pale.”

“I think you look perfectly handsome.” Cyril more heard the words escaping his lips than actually consciously said them. Immediately, he blanched. He did not dare look at Tigris.

Atticus, the gods bless him, did not overreact to this sudden compliment. He gave Cyril a look of pleased surprise and smiled warmly. “I am very glad you think so, Cyril.”