Rysa, Loys decided, holding his newest acquisition aloft. She painted her silhouette against his face in shadow like a caress as he ran a finger along her cool iron spine. “Beautiful,” he whispered, eyes shining with pride. In all his days, he’d not once seen two keys that were identical. He heard it said that every person was different, magical, but whomever thought so had never taken a good long gander at keys.
Loys could relate to keys, really. So easily overlooked. People rarely thought of them, save when opening this chest or closing that, and they rarely thought of him, save when he must sign this parchment or that. Keys didn’t threaten, however, and neither did Loys, although both were powerful - or could be used that way. Friends had left him, people overlooked him, but no key had ever hurt him and, when lost, it was rarely permanent. When you lost a person, you did not see them again.
Rysa had belonged to a humble chest, full of gold. She was small and rusty and worn with use. No eye, save that of a connoisseur, would probably ever notice her, but Loys saw the chicks and wear of her as far more striking than the massive ornamental keys to the city gates. No, Rysa had had a productive life. The value she guarded was miniscule compared to the city walls, but still she faithfully preserved her watch (that is, until Loys had stolen her, unwittingly locking her contents inside forever after outside of smashing the casket to get at them). Now, her gentle retirement had come. At last, her moment had come. Loys, himself, would never had this moment. The Warden of the South died as such. He would never be dismissed, never blessedly alone with his keys but, at least, his mother was there to help him along the way.
Loys didn’t often think about how his life might otherwise be, but whenever Margery mentioned it, Loys realized all over again just how much he had to thank her for. How would he ever have made it through without her?
Grinning brightly at his beloved mother, Loys paused to lovingly cradle Rysa on a velvet bed he’d had crafted for her. “Mama, come meet Rysa. Is she not lovely?” he bit his lip, then. As usual, Loys had forgotten he was promised to someone, but now the idea flitted into his head again, unbidden. At once, his palms began to sweat.
Mama had shown him a portrait of Celia Beaumont and she was, indeed, the loveliest girl he’d ever seen - which usually made her an object of abject terror - but Celia was different. He was to be hers, just as his keys belonged to him, and she wanted him! Avelina Beaumont had breached the topic with his mother, not the other way around! Loys knew his duty. A man protected his wife, cherished her, gave her…children. Loys swallowed hard, blushing deeply. He thought he could pull off cherishing her well enough, but the rest…well…
"Has there been any word from Lady Celia?" he inquired, sheepishly, glancing down at his feet as he worried at the edge of the rug with his toe. He wondered if, perhaps, she’d changed her mind and started back. Rob said he wouldn’t be surprised if she had: no woman would ever want Loys, and Rob knew about women.
When she brought him the orders, Loys took the quill with a small sigh. He hated signing things. The feather felt queer against his skin, especially when he thought of the beast who had once borne it as an ornament. It was like writing with someone’s hair, and he suppressed a shudder at the thought. “I’m glad of it,” he responded, smiling meekly. “I was much too busy with Rysa. She needs to settled in gently, Mama,” he added, eying with with worry as she approached the key. He hoped she didn’t disturb her when she needed the rest most. She’d had the biggest day of her life.
What he didn’t say, was that he hadn’t wished to attend, for many reasons…not the least of which being Lady Varion’s considerable cleavage which she had taken to flaunting since the announcement of his betrothal. Loys wasn’t sure how to tell her it was showing without being indelicate. It made him feel odd to see it and, since he couldn’t fix it, he preferred not to be there.
