Shoestring Theory

FOURTEEN

The first thing Cyril did upon waking was summon a maid and ask for a bowl of the biggest, sweetest raisins she could procure. Upon receiving these, he laid them out for Ganache like an offering to an old god, and watched the familiar eat ravenously before she decided she no longer enjoyed present company and hopped out the window to perch on a branch, making her molasses-slow return home to her master.

Tigris left him to his own devices shortly after declaring she would scour every nook and cranny of this palace until there was nothing left to see, so Cyril decided to seek out his mark.

It was mean to speak like that of Atticus, but that is what it felt like going to talk to him after he agreed to Tigris’s plan. He had spent a great deal of his life hearing whispers of how he was a tempter, a wily fox looking to ensnare prey behind his back, he did not relish actually becoming one.

And he was not being modest when he told Tigris he really was very awkward. There was no way this could go but horribly sideways.

But he looked for the king anyway. At the very least he needed to tell him about Eufrates’s threats. Warn him. He owed Atticus that much and more. If Atticus decided to thank him by fancying him just a bit, that would not be such a bad exchange.

Atticus happened to be unoccupied, bounding down the steps to the ground floor with a stack of scrolls tucked under one arm when Cyril found him. He was at the top of the staircase and called out, feeling suddenly very self-conscious of every little thing he or Atticus did.

Atticus explained he needed to get these scrolls back to one of his studies, but afterwards, if Cyril wished it, he would have his undivided attention. Cyril couldn’t help but peek into the little writing he could make out inside the rolled-up pieces of parchment. They seemed to be old medical studies, which he found curious. He would not pry, though. Not when he was trying to get Atticus in a good mood.

Once his hands were freed and he had returned, Cyril worked up the courage to ask if he would like to breakfast together in the dining hall, since it seemed such a slow morning. Atticus flashed him one of his charmed smiles and said:

“I’ve a better idea.”

A quarter hour later, they had ascended back upstairs, but in the opposite direction of the guest rooms. Cyril realised with some mortification that he was being led to Atticus’s private quarters.

Cyril looked around, whirling his gaze in a slow windmill so he had to focus on anything but Atticus.

“I have never been to this side of the palace.” He let out a nervous little laugh. “It feels as though I am not sure I am meant to be here.”

“You are being invited by the king himself! It is a perfect excuse to explore.”

Cyril nodded, palms taking on a sticky texture as he finally looked ahead at Atticus’s broad back and neatly cropped blond hair. He knew he had the best of intentions, but Tigris had wormed herself so deeply in his head he would have been nervous if Atticus asked him to pass him a shaker of salt during a meal.

“Would it not be easier to take breakfast in one of the dining rooms?” he asked.

“Easier? Oh, yes. But this will be a fair deal more impressive.”

Though he could see Atticus’s smile even just by watching the back of his head, Cyril did not grasp his meaning until they arrived at the king’s quarters.

It was not just one room. It was an entire living space, so grand Cyril could not even see a bed (he noted this with some relief). There were doors that led to other rooms in the quarters, one of them he assumed was where Atticus slept, but it resembled very much Cyril’s own apartments in the tower, only on a much grander scale.

The room they had entered into was home to a few sofas for lounging, bookshelves stacked high with more literary fluff that Cyril could only assume was for entertainment, and a small table upon which one could take their morning meals or prop their feet up.

They bypassed this area entirely as Atticus led him down to a set of glass double doors through to an uncovered space. It was wonderful. A suspended patio – it was much too big to be a balcony – on the second floor of a palace, with its own modest gardens and benches and another table, this time wooden and bigger, that seemed to seat a party of perhaps ten visitors.

More impressive still was the covered alcove tucked to one side of the patio that contained cookware. A stovetop, a grill, an oven, cupboards with glass doors where he could see fine crockery inside.

He remembered, then, that Tigris had briefly mentioned this on their first encounter. He kept a grill in his chambers for game. It was such a reductive way of putting it when the man owned an entire private kitchen.

Atticus walked over to the alcove with childlike enthusiasm and began rolling up his sleeves.

“I thought it such a nice day, it would be a shame to eat indoors. It will have to be a simple meal, though, Cyril, I do not wish to make you wait an hour for some ridiculous confection.”

Cyril stood, awestruck, before it struck him that the polite thing to do was take a seat at the wooden table.

“Tigris did mention you cooked… she did not say you were a chef.”

Atticus laughed. “That is because I am not! I swear, it is a very easy hobby to pick up. Gives me something to do with my hands.”

He cracked four eggs into a large pan one-handed, as well as adding thick-cut slabs of bacon. Into a mixing bowl, he began to whisk a combination of flour, milk and some other things Cyril had not been able to make out. Once the watery batter was done, he began doling out paper-thin circles of it into another, smaller pan, greased by a knob of fragrant, honeyed butter. It steamed and sizzled and smelled incredible.

Atticus laid out their meal in front of him like a proud artist. As usual, he sat himself beside Cyril instead of across from him, something he had grown used to enough not to jump when it happened anymore.

“This is delicious,” he said between bites. “Truly. But it feels wrong, somehow, to be served by a king.”

Atticus scoffed, not distastefully. “Then think you are being served by a friend, if that clears your conscience.”

“You have been kind to me to an excess.”

Atticus yet again laid a warm hand upon his shoulder, another thing Cyril had become accustomed to over the last few days spent in Cretea.

“I am happy you came to me. It shows trust and that is no small gift. But I had always wondered why you chose to come to me in the first place. Surely a relative would have been the obvious choice.”

Cyril could not admit that he had not so much ‘chosen’ Atticus as been bullied into seeking him out by Tigris. Perhaps he was being too cynical, though. Perhaps he would have gone to him even if he’d been completely alone.

“I… am not very close to my family. Both my parents passed when I was quite young.”

He braced for the pity that usually followed immediately after these kinds of statements. He did not feel he deserved it. His parents had shipped him off to Heléne when he was barely out of leading strings, and they did not even bother to visit very often. The guilt of it stung, made him feel monstrous, but he had not particularly mourned them. Condolences were a waste of good breath on him.

“Ah. We are very like, then.”

Cyril blinked. He wasn’t expecting that, and he wasn’t quite sure he heard him correctly. When it finally sank in, he did the self-same thing he had been dreading almost immediately.

“I am sorry, Atticus.”

Atticus gave him an amused look. “I doubt you killed them, if that is what you’re sorry for. I have been king since the wise old age of sixteen. I am sure you were not capable enough to assassinate a royal couple all the way from the mage tower.”

“They… were killed?”

“We’ve a few enemies in Cretea. It is why I was looking forward to allying myself with your own kingdom.”

Cyril looked down at his plate, where the jam and butter on the stacked crêpes was melting together. “I am sorry about Tigris.”

Atticus actually did laugh this time, instead of barely containing it.

“Again, Cyril! I do not think you were responsible for that either! Perhaps she simply did not care for me. I was actually desperate enough to ask for Eufrates ’s hand in marriage, but I do not think we are on very good terms.” He eyed Cyril up and down. “And I do not believe I am his type.”

The guilt had him in such a strong, virulent chokehold he was having a hard time swallowing his bacon. He had given up his life to try and repair the future and yet here he was, making trouble for everyone around him. It was like he had chosen to be an active participant in his world’s demise this time around instead of a lily-livered bystander.

This was the perfect moment to tell him about Eufrates and yet he was frozen in a swirl of emotions. Mercifully, Atticus seemed to take this as though he was not thoroughly enjoying his meal.

“Ah! You mustn’t eat the crêpes like that. It is much better when they are warm and the butter is thoroughly melted.”

Then, to Cyril’s complete surprise, because he apparently was incapable of retaining basic information in his head, Atticus produced a small flame of magefire above the plate, warming up his food once more.

“Oh… I had forgotten…” he began.

“I am sure. Perhaps I just wanted to show off a bit. Though this is about the extent of what I can do. And it will hardly impress Cyril Laverre.”

“No, no!” Cyril cried. “I am very impressed. Magic is difficult to learn, and you have so much to deal with already.”

“Still. Fire is what you mages learn when you are barely out of diapers, am I right? From what I know of your abilities, they are much more varied. A jack of all trades, correct?”

Cyril nodded. “It is required for grand magistry. Though… I am not sure if I will ever fulfil that title now.”

He was rubbish at this. It was insensible of Tigris to even conceive of him being some sort of seductor. He didn’t know what to say, how to steal the conversation. Perhaps he could use magic, enchant the king. Bind them together in an invisible weave that would make Atticus see him as the most important man in the world, but the mere thought of it made bile rise up to his throat. He had never been much of an enchanter. He did not have the constitution for it.

Perhaps, instead, he could do what he had been doing all along, needling the king to covert annoyance.

“Atticus, are you sure there is nothing I can do in your court?”

“Cyril–”

“No, I… Listen, please. Yesternight, I… there was a letter from Eufrates. He seeks to challenge you for stealing his mage. But if we can convince the court, the populous, that I am here of my own free will, because I have sworn fealty to your crown, he will seem a madman. Unreasonable in his pursuit.”

He had been putting off breaking the news so long and he finally blurted it out as though he had heaved the contents of his belly back onto the plate. He saw a glint in Atticus’s eyes which he was sure must be horror.

“Do… did you keep the letter?”

Cyril blanched. “It was too painful. I was frightened. I burnt it, but you must believe me. He will make a move on Cretea and I do not want you caught unawares.”

“It is a serious claim, but I have earned your trust so you shall have mine.” The hand was there on his shoulder again, warm and reassuring.

“Please, let me help.”

“You have helped more than enough. A surprise invasion would have been catastrophic.”

“But this is my fault!”

“Do not say that, Cyril.”

Desperation flared in his chest so wild and hot he might burst into flame despite the mild, beautiful weather. He had tried his best and still he was denied. He felt useless, powerless, like the cause of all the world’s evils. It would have been better if he had died in the cottage, choking in a pool of his own thick blood. At the same time, he felt manic. Jittery with recklessness.

He leaned in, too quick to be stopped, and kissed Atticus on the lips.

He had not kissed or been kissed in a very long time. In an embarrassingly long time for a married man. It felt nice, comforting despite the frantic undertones.

Then the ring bore through his chest like molten metal. He felt like he was being stabbed with a hot iron, agonisingly slow.

Cyril ignored it. He held the kiss for a few seconds, enough for it to truly make an impact, then he pulled away as suddenly as he’d drawn in.

Atticus’s expression was unreadable, but his brows were high on his forehead.

“I… please, forgive me, I–” Cyril blurted.

What Atticus said to him next was so incomprehensible at first Cyril thought he was barely parsing a long-forgotten dead tongue.

The king looked regretful as he carded a hand through his hair. “Cyril…”

“I’m–”

“No. Listen, Cyril, I did not… I do not want you to think I will not protect you unless I can get something out of you. I would be no better than scum.

“I am… charmed by you. I have said so a number of times, but you do not need to force yourself to seduce me just so you can guarantee a place in my court. If it is what you truly want, I will give it to you.”

“I did not force myself,” he lied in a very small voice.

Atticus flashed him a wane smile. “Truly? Your method of courtship is to kiss someone suddenly in the middle of a meal? I did not think you so brazen.”

Cyril looked down at his now-empty plate. “No… it is not, but… I truly– I want–”

He felt the familiar squeeze on his shoulder. “I think you are frightened, and you do not want me to turn you in to Eufrates to prevent escalation. I promise you it is the farthest thing from my mind. He would have found a reason to turn on me sooner or later, I believe. He never seemed to like me.”

This could not be farther from the truth. In the early days of his rule, Eufrates had looked to Atticus like a guiding hand, a reliable mentor. The relationship soured along the way, but there was a time when his husband cherished Atticus much more than Cyril ever did.

And now, looking into his eyes, being showered by his undivided attention, Cyril understood fully how easy it was to trust this man. To give himself entirely to him, as a friend, or a guide, or something deeper. Warmth fluttered in his chest.

Atticus stood up from his seat. “You are tired. I’ll bet you barely slept since receiving the letter. I will let you rest, as I have preparations of my own to attend to now I’ve got a petulant new regent to deal with.”

“Are you sure you don’t need–?”

Atticus clicked his tongue and pulled Cyril up to standing alongside him. “I will grow tired of repeating myself. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Before he let go of Cyril’s hand, he laced their fingers conspiratorially and smiled.

“And should you like to kiss me again when tensions are not so high, I would perhaps be amenable to it.”

Against all odds. In defiance of some ancient covenant between the gods themselves, Tigris’s plan had succeeded. Notorious wallflower and cripplingly awkward romantic Cyril Laverre had managed to get a man to fancy him on his wit and personality alone. This had only happened one time before, to catastrophic results.

He let himself hope that this time would be different. Atticus was not Tigris’s type, but he was close to Cyril’s. An attentive man who treated him like a precious gem despite how little he deserved it. It was a heady feeling, being wanted.

He had not felt a spark in that kiss. There was no burst of passion. His loins were not set ablaze like they’re meant to be in novels and fairy tales, but he did not need whirlwind romance. He had experienced it already.

What had he said to Tigris? ‘It is better to form a lasting attachment based on mutual trust’ or some such avuncular nonsense. He would believe his own advice this time. He was not in love with Atticus, but he liked him very much, and that was a brilliant place to start. An attachment.

His hand grasped at the ring that was proving to be the second worst bane of his existence. He just needed to deal with it first.