Page 59 of The Consort's Curse
Apparently so.
“He said he’d send for the guards and have them arrest me for using magic, but I didn’t! Stefan, I swear I didn’t. How are you here? Stefan, I—”
“Fritz was lurking to the side of the terrace, and he overheard the fracas and ran to find me instantly. I told him not to let you out of his sight, and now I owe him a much larger salary. See to it if I don’t remember to.” I glanced at Fritz, who didn’t seem pleased at all by the prospect. In fact, his expression remained downright dour. And Stefan…now that I’d calmed enough to look closely, his appearance was very odd.
His clothing didn’t match, a pair of plain dark breeches and shirt underneath an ill-fitting black evening coat. The underclothes made sense; they were similar to what he always wore when he went out to meet his seedy associates. But Fritz had quite possibly stolen the coat from Lord Corombos’s cloakroom. The strangeness of seeing Stefan badly dressed had almost made me overlook the clammy pallor of his face. And his posture, almost awkward, not his usual supple grace at all…
Icy dread wrapped around my chest, squeezing me more tightly than my corset. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong here.
“Stefan, what’s the matter? You’re not yourself. What’s—”
“Nothing whatsoever. Lord Corombos!” Stefan turned and strode away from me, and I tried to follow, but Fritz caught me by the arm.
“Stay here, Lord Remi,” he said. “Stay out of it. Your part in this is done.”
“But—”
Sylvie trotted over and took the sword out of my hand. “You won’t be needing this!” she declared, and off she went with it.
“Stef—”
“Be quiet!” Fritz’s hand tightened on my arm, tugging me back as I tried to chase after Stefan. “Don’t distract him, my lord. Don’t.”
“Fritz, what’s wrong?” I tugged, but he had me fast. “Fritz!”
He didn’t answer, merely shaking his head, but it didn’t matter. Stefan had already stepped into the center of the square, bowing to the assembled lords, including Griset, who’d puffed up and gone purple with rage and frustration.
That might have been more satisfying under other circumstances. But Stefan truly wasn’t himself, I could tell: the odd rigidity of his posture, his pallor, Fritz’s tension.
“Good, we’re not taking our jackets off,” Stefan said. “I’d rather get this over with quickly too, what? I need a drink. My lady, ah…”
“Sylvian, my lord!” She came to his side with the eagerness of a hunting hound, practically vibrating with excitement and hero-worship. “I hope you don’t mind having me as your second. I was doing my best to serve Remi well.”
“The sword you chose for him was very good,” Stefan said, and I could see her blushing from five yards away. “But I’ll need something with a larger hilt, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, my lord!”
She trotted off to the table, and Stefan turned back to Lord Griset.
“As soon as I’m armed, I’m entirely at your disposal, my lord,” he said, and his tone had gone grim. “Very, very much so.”
“My principal believes his hand may be too injured by Lord Remigius’s magical attack to fight tonight after all,” LordGriset’s second said, stepping forward between them. “He will need to—”
“Nonsense!” Lord Corombos cried. “Fuck me, but that’s nonsense. Lady Sylvian proposed postponement three times that I recall, and you both refused categorically. Now that your opponent’s on your level, you’re suddenly too hurt to damn well follow through on the duel you insisted on?”
“You’re holding your sword in the hand you claim is hurt, too,” Sylvie piped up. She sounded even more cheerful now that her principal was likely to survive. “You will abide by the terms negotiated, my lords, or I’m afraid this contest is forfeit.”
Lord Griset and his second exchanged glances, the latter shrugging as if to say, well, we tried. Lord Corombos turned aside to confer with the mage and place him nearer to me, where presumably he could tell if I tried to interfere. A tense silence fell as the combatants took their places. Sylvie and Lord Griset’s second stood off to the side.
They raised their swords and arranged their stances. Stefan missed his footing for a fraction of an instant, catching himself and raising his arm.
Dread rose up and choked me, my body nearly shattering with tension.
“Begin, gentlemen,” Lord Corombos said.
They both lunged, moving faster than I could follow, their swords silvery flashes in the night. Only the scrape of metal on metal told me they’d engaged; otherwise they could’ve been dancing. Even Lord Griset had become beautiful, in a bizarre way, his body twisting and turning with extraordinary grace.
But he was nothing to Stefan. As a languid, drawling fop, my husband still commanded attention, tall and handsome and witty.
