#saibra

Autumn arrived and change came alongside it. Trees ignited in a dazzling array of reds, oranges, yellows, and purples; the air strengthened with a newfound chill; rain moved in and made to stay, at least sprinkling a few drops a day for three weeks straight.

“Good to know there’s a place more miserable than Blackpoole this time of year,” the Marchioness muttered. She glared out the window at the weather, though was soon distracted by the cawing of Ashildr’s raven.

“At least we have had pokings of sun throughout the month,” Ashildr said idly. It was the two of them in the office, trapped by the rain that was falling outside. “There have been years where we do not see sun from the first turned leaf until well after the Violet Sky.”

“That makes you sound so old,” the Marchioness said through half a giggle. She then glanced over at Ashildr, who wore a blank expression. “Wait… how old are you?”

“Forty-three; Ancient Gallifrey runs strong in my veins, as with many people in your new home, and that blood is long-lived and slow to age. I appear younger than you, yet I reasonably could have occupied this office the longest of our number. His Lordship has the same blood in him; why else would he look close to your age despite being nine years older? It is not entirely a younger countenance, soon to be hit with many years of ageing at once.”

The Marchioness stared at Ashildr, unsure of how to react. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, only to finally exhale when Rigsy and the Marquis came into the room, the former looking wary as the latter held a babe in his arm.

“Clara, look at this brilliant tiny human,” the Marquis beamed, presenting her the child. “It is Riggins’s daughter.”

“I apologize, milady,” Rigsy said. “I had no choice but to bring Lucy with me today. My wife is ill and…”

“Don’t apologize,” the Marchioness gently ordered. She attempted to peek in on the girl, yet the child retreated further underneath the Marquis’s cozy cloak. While the outside of the cloak was a deep, dark, stiff blue, the inner lining was a soft red that made the babe coo in happiness. “Oh yes, my dear, I do not blame you. His Lordship does have a rather nice cloak.”

“I find this rather inappropriate, if I may,” Ashildr said from her desk. “The child is an unnecessary distraction.”

“I believe she is rather necessary,” the Marquis corrected. He made certain the child was covered well—the only bit of her showing being her tiny brown nose poking out for air—before turning his full attention to his assistant. “You have simply allowed misfortune to sour you.”

“As though you are one to talk.”

“One must be kind, especially to those who come after us,” he said icily. He watched in silence as Ashildr stood and walked out of the office, her raven hopping from its perch and following her before the door shut. “I apologize, Clara, but she no longer cares for children.”

“How can one ‘no longer’ care for children? Either one does or they do not.”

“That is not for us to say, milady,” Rigsy frowned. He lifted the Marquis’s cloak just enough so he could see that his daughter was now sleeping soundly. “She is attached to you, milord.”

“That is part of why she is such a brilliant wee thing; she understands more than most many times her age,” the Marquis preened. He then saw his wife’s near-puzzled expression and frowned. “Clara? What is wrong?”

“Ashildr and I were talking before you came in and she mentioned that she has the blood of Ancient Gallifrey in her and that is why her looks are nowhere near her age. Is this true?”

“Yes, it is,” he affirmed. “From the hinterlands to the Castle, there are those with greying hair and bending backs that shall outlive you and Riggins both even if you have long, full lives. I look more what my age is normally because widowhood has not been gentle, yet I am still younger than her. By all accounts, I should appear more twenty-four or twenty-five for an average person, which seems laughable considering my age.” He gently bounced the concealed lump in his arm, patting the hidden child on her back. “Young Lucy here comes from a similar background as Ashildr thanks to her mama, does she not?”

“She does,” Rigsy said. “You know, it still feels odd knowing that you are nearing forty, milord. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were merely a few weeks past thirty.”

“Thirty-seven is not ‘nearing forty’ just yet,” the Marquis bristled. He sat down at his desk and began to work one-handed, holding the sleeping babe securely whilst he found the papers he left the afternoon before. “I believe we have work to do.”

Rigsy and the Marchioness exchanged amused looks—it was best to let this particular subject drop if they were going to get anywhere that morning. They went to their desks and began on their daily work, both stealing glances at the Marquis and his impromptu charge as the day went on.

As she observed her husband and the child, however, the Marchioness found herself growing increasingly drawn to the Marquis, the fire she felt from seeing him in clothes more fitting his status flaring up again. She attempted to quell it—he was a deft hand at keeping the child quiet and amused, that was for certain—yet she also knew deep down that his hearts did not yearn as hers and it was foolish to believe otherwise. It was nearly a waste in her mind, though at least she was not the one doing the wasting. She returned to her work and attempted to concentrate, no matter how difficult her husband was going to make it.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Whilst the Marchioness received many letters during the months she had been in her station, there were few that she seemed to enjoy reading, and even fewer that she seemed to dread. There was one letter she received during a breakfast soon after the first flakes flew that encompassed both, starting off with a wistful gaze and quickly devolving into wide eyes and a spoon dropped into her porridge.

“Clara? What’s wrong?” The Serdaressa placed her own spoon down and waited for the woman across the table to look up from the letter at her. A couple moments passed as she kicked her son-in-law’s boot, stealing his attention from the newspaper.

“Ow! What’s that for?”

“Your wife is upset—take care of her.”

“She is…?”

“For stars’ sake, look at her.” He did, though turned his attention back and shrugged. “You’re an idiot.”

“Mama…”

“I’m… I don’t feel well,” the Marchioness said quietly. She stood and left the room before either of her tablemates could react, taking the letter with her. The serdaressa pointed in the direction of the door and scowled at the young man before her.

“Go, now, or I will make certain she is your successor this afternoon instead of whenever it is a Dalek finally gets the best of you,” she growled. When he opened his mouth to protest, an intensified glare ended his words before he could even speak them. “Now, and stop acting like a child about it. She is your wife, friend, and coworker. Do not leave her alone, whatever that news was.”

Giving in to his mother-in-law’s will, the Marquis stood to prove his intent, finished off his eggs, and went off in search of the Marchioness. She was not in their chambers, nor anywhere else in the private wing, leading him to scour the remainder of the castle for her. He eventually found her in a sitting room tucked away in high tower, looking out the window over the city and earldom below and the march even further out.

“Clara? What’s the matter?” He approached her cautiously, despite her calm demeanor. “What news did you receive? Is everything alright in Blackpoole?”

“The letter was not from Blackpoole,” she replied. She waited until he sat on the couch, facing her, before she turned her attention fully towards him. “It was from the capitol.”

“Is your father there?”

“It was not my father, but the reason my father brokered our marriage.” She glanced down at the papers in her hand and exhaled heavily. “Daniel and I have kept in touch via letters, making the time apart bearable. We agreed to allow our hearts to wander if that what is to be, yet…”

“…he has already found someone, while you have yet to look,” he realized. Her silence was all the confirmation he required. “Oh Clara… Clara, Clara, Clara… come here.” He fluffed out his cape and wrapped her in it as she moved closer to him. “Is that better? I know this room is rather drafty.”

“Yeah,” she replied quietly. The Marquis raised an eyebrow as she leaned into him, shivering against his warm body.

“You never thought this would happen, did you?” he asked. She shook her head against his chest. “I’ll be honest: you seem to be taking this rather well.”

“I am happy for him, truly, it’s just… happiness shouldn’t hurt this much.”

“This is correct, though you shall find your own happiness soon enough,” he said. “You are a brilliant woman; the fact people no one is tripping over themselves to court you yet is the most confounding thing.”

“It is because they know they’d have to pass my husband’s standards, which they are not up to,” the Marchioness chuckled weakly.

“My standards? It is the lady herself who has the highest standards in the lands.” They both shared a laugh, knowing that it was true. “Tell me about Daniel and his new paramour—what has he told you?”

“She is a member of the medical branch of the King’s Army, and they were stationed together for a time soon after we parted ways,” she explained. “Her name is Martha and she is from around here, funnily enough. He wants to know if I would be comfortable with the two of them moving to Kasterborous once their service to His Highness is complete in a year or two.”

“Then let them, and we can invite them to our table to show no ill will,” he suggested. “Maybe you can stay in the capitol during the Season and meet with them then—we will have been wed a year at that point, and you can test the waters.”

“No; there is no way I am looking for someone to court during that mess of a cattle auction,” she grumbled. “I’m not that easy. Maybe there shall be someone to court during recesses of important meetings with His Highness, but not when people are showing off their supposed wealth and power.”

“I never said anything about you being easy, my dear,” he smirked. He rested his chin upon her head as she moved in closer—it was cold in there. “We’ll figure something out. It’s not like we have all of winter to decide how to go about things.”

“We do, don’t we?”

“Well… more than the winter. You don’t have to find someone just yet if you don’t want to.”

“Good.” She exhaled as she shifted to wrap her arms around his waist, holding him close. “We have to cuddle in your cape more often.”

“We are not cuddling; I am against cuddling.”

“Then what is this?” He then became extra-conscious of how they were: she was nearly sitting in his lap and somehow his arm had found its way around her shoulders, which caused him to go very red. “Don’t worry; I won’t tell Amelia.”

“If you do then it’s the first carriage back to Blackpoole for you.”

“She doesn’t need to tell me.” The two glanced towards the door and saw the Serdaressa standing there, a cheeky grin upon her lips. “Just kiss already.”

“Maybe some other time,” the Marchioness laughed. She disentangled herself from her husband and walked over towards their mother-in-law, throwing the Marquis a flirtatious wink on her way. “We don’t want to overload him too much, do we now?”

“N-No…” he replied weakly, watching as the two women left the room. He sat there, alone, with the ghost of his wife’s warmth against him trapped inside his cloak. Gazing out the window, he watched as flecks of snow danced their way across the lavender-grey sky.

What the stars was that?

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It all began during a private session of court, where the public was not admitted. Lesser lords and serdars answered the summons from the Marquis and Marchioness’s office, for the winter months were for planning, and sometimes planning involved not being only half-heard as ideas were traded about in their infancy.

“I have been asked in my halls about your father’s cousins, milord,” a serdar claimed. The Marquis kept his hands folded atop the large table all twenty-five were sat around, lordly stoic.

“What about? Are the smallfolk really that curious over corpses that have been rotten nearly two-score years?”

“They are curious about if they truly are dead or not,” the serdar shrugged. “Word has persisted that they might still live—what should I say?”

“There is no evidence that His Lordship has other relatives, and the branch you are referring to are either too old to still be alive or their graves lie far beyond the march’s borders,” the Marchioness cut in. Her husband remained silent; she could handle it and prove her knowledge of recent historical Gallifreyan politics to the voles in the room. “Surely those are the ones you mean, not any mysterious and distant maternal ones, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you can reassure those in your halls that Faolan the False’s only child perished at sea after producing no issue, and that even had Faolan lived through the storm himself, he would be close to two hundred years old and by all accounts in a grave of his own.”

“Milady?” another serdar piped up timidly. He was young and newly made by the King not yet two years back. “May I ask a foolish question?”

“You have yet to ask such a thing; I would say the odds are with you,” she assured. “What is it?”

“Who was this Faolan the False?”

“His lordship’s great-uncle, his grandfather’s twin, and he craved the governance chair despite his brother being the one who was groomed to take it. He grew jealous and bitter and nearly killed the Tenth Doctor, though his mechanizations did not succeed thanks to an old friend finding him in time. Faolan and his wife were mercifully banished and their child born outside the march’s borders, though all three died in a sea storm decades ago.”

“Things might be different if I knew my cousins,” the Marquis added. “I do not, however, so we remember, though do not dwell on what could have been.” He turned back towards the first serdar, his lord’s mask firm. “Is that sufficient?”

“Yes, milord,” he replied. “I shall reiterate to the marchers in my halls that your hearts have not wavered, that your dedication to your positon should quell any uncertainties.”

“…as funny as it seems that His Lordship has a heart, let alone two,” Rigsy joked from his spot to the Marchioness’s right. Everyone smirked at that, except the Marquis, who merely leaned forward to peer around his wife at the culprit.

“One as a normal person, and one for the people and lands I govern—what humor do you find in that?”

“You have long been a severe man, milord,” a baroness mentioned. “It has been good to see you soften these past few months.”

“I have not,” he scowled, nearly insulted. “Why is Ashildr not here? She would defend me.”

“It is nothing that requires defending,” the Marchioness insisted. She placed her hand upon his right arm, lending him her presence for stability. “Now, how about we get back to the meeting proper? I believe we were about to discuss the refortification of Karn and how much is needed there.”

“Yes, you are correct,” he said. He cleared his throat and grabbed at papers set out in front of him, glad for the segue in conversation. “Karn; what is the situation?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Are you broken?”

The Marchioness glanced up from her work, looking at her husband across the room. They were alone in their office, at their separate desks in a way that allowed them to face one another. His face was puzzled, though she was unsure as to why.

“No…?” she replied. “What brought you to that conclusion?”

“I haven’t seen that face before,” he explained. “Slight head-tilt to the right, pursed lips, narrowed eyes, one wrinkle in your brow; it’s not a usual face.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were taking notes on my facial expressions,” she deadpanned. “I was just reading.”

“Reading what?”

“About the precedent surrounding this complaint from the hinterlands regarding pasture ownership,” she said. “It’s written here that the dispute was ultimately solved with a magic duel.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No—you’ve told me about the ancient magic—it is simply that it is one thing knowing that it used to exist openly long ago, and another seeing the practical solutions and their contexts, applying them theoretically to a current issue.”

“If you were to go to the disputed area tomorrow and it was suggested they solve their differences through a duel, would you allow it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We are no longer in the Seventh Doctor’s tenure, first off, and I would need to be able to moderate, which I cannot being as I don’t know how to do such things as magic.”

“I can teach you,” he blurted out. “You’re already beginning to pick up on some basic Gallifreyan, which is the first step in learning the Ancient Gallifreyans’ ways. A Doctor needs to know her people’s culture, after all.”

“I thought there was a reason why magic fell out of favor: it was too powerful.”

“It can be, though it can be benign all the same. Don’t listen to those with less of Gallifrey in their veins than the average traveler from the Capitol.”

“Oh? Prove it.”

The Marquis smirked and held out his hand, palm open towards the ceiling. “Léas,” he said, before gently blowing air from his lips. Golden dust formed on his breath and swirled above his palm, delicately coming together to form a leaf, which flitted across the room and onto the Marchioness’s desk. As it landed, it dissipated into a puff, nothing remaining of the spell.

“Show-off,” she scoffed, though could not help but smile. “Maybe tomorrow we can fit in a lesson—we can make it a date, even.”

“I’d like to see anyone beat that,” he replied smugly.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The City and Earldom of Gallifrey began to buzz with excitement as the slow Spring thaw melted the white and grey landscapes and frostings to reveal the green and brown underneath. A ball was coming, unlike any had seen in decades, and there was much to do to prepare. Streets were swept, monstrous amounts of food and drink were ordered, and there were plenty of mental preparations being done for when the highborn guests began to file their way into the city walls.

“It feels odd,” Psimon, Earl Braxos, said as he stared out the window. He and his wife, Saibhra, were sitting with the Marchioness for tea, taking a slow afternoon as they waited for the ball to occur in a week’s time. Their early arrival was part of the Marquis’s concessions, though he himself was finalizing the temporary stoppage of governance and therefore was not with them.

“It shan’t for long,” the Marchioness replied. “By the end of your stay, I hope we feel like old friends.”

“Maybe for the two of us, but you have to remember that our husbands have been friends since they were children,” the Earlessa reminded her. She sipped her tea and shrugged. “That was well before my time.”

“At least that is another thing we share,” the Marchioness nodded. The two of them were within a year’s distance in age and she was glad for it. That did not mean, however, that she was willing to drop conversation then and there, as she also had a motive. “Psi?”

“Hmm?”

“What was Melody like?”

The Earl blinked, his attention turning towards his hostess.

“What…?”

“Speaking of old friends, would you be able to tell me what kind of a person Melody was? How was Johan like when she was still alive? What were they like?”

“I’m not entirely certain you want to hear what you are asking for…”

“No, I know what I want and am asking precisely what you think I mean: tell me about my husband and his first wife. I don’t want to ask him or Amelia just yet and resurface any bad memories, but I also am curious.”

The Earl paused, reflecting on that, before letting out a weak chuckle. “They were perfect.” He looked out the window again, watching the city below. “Johan and Melody were best friends, and when the best friends were told they were promised to one another, they were able to fall in love all the same. You can imagine how intense the love was if it kept Our Johan in mourning blacks until recently.”

“I was under that sort of impression,” the Marchioness said. She stared into her tea before taking a sip, during which she noticed the Earlessa staring at her. “Yes?”

“Clara, are you fond of Johan?”

“What would make you say that? He’s an idiot.”

“So is Psi, and yet I am gladly married to him.”

“I’m right here, you know,” the Earl frowned.

“We are aware,” the Earlessa replied, patting his knee. “Clara, if Johan asked to court you, would you accept?”

“He wouldn’t; he is still mourning Melody.”

“Say he wasn’t anymore; would you consider it?”

“Saibhra, you know the man we’re talking about, right?” the Marchioness said. “He’s rude and arrogant and has set himself into so many ways since becoming a widow that it is impossible to see him divested from that mindset. He is a rather difficult man to even be married to, and I imagine more so to court.”

“…but would you…?”

She thought about it for a moment before nodding her head once. “I’d consider it. Whether we pursue one another or not, he remains a handsome bride for my arm; I cannot deny that.”

“A bride on your arm and a bride in your bed are two separate matters,” the Earlessa said frankly. Her husband choked on his tea and placed his cup down on the table, mortified.

“I am not hearing this.”

“Nor did you ever,” she warned. “No tattling.”

“As though I’d want to.” The Earl stood and smoothed out his jacket, making certain there were no errant biscuit crumbs. “I wonder if the gardener has kept the same blooms as in years prior or if there have been changes.”

“Then take your walk and find out, while we have some girl talk,” his wife said. He did wander out the room, allowing the Earlessa and Marchioness to roll their eyes at one another.

“I hear you used to act, correct?” the Marchioness asked after a sip of tea. “Does it help your position in Braxos or does it not matter? Either way I am impressed by the career shift.”

“I can see a liar when they decide to attempt to fool me, though that is more recognizing arrogance than acting methods,” she shrugged. “People thought I wouldn’t know how to behave in a courtly setting, but isn’t that only all of acting right there?”

“You’d think, but we do live in an odd society, don’t we?” She poured both her and her guest some more tea and leaned back in her chair, resting her cup so that the steam wafted up into her nose. “We need to visit with one another more often, if only to get some like-minded conversation every once in a while.”

“Like-minded? I think you mean sane; admit it.”

All the Marchioness needed to confirm was smile.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Hold still,” the Serdaressa insisted in the ceremonial tongue. The Marquis grunted and complied, reluctantly allowing his mother-in-law to fuss over his hair and jacket. They were both dressed finely in preparation for the society ball that was mere minutes away.

“I’m not a child, Mama,” he complained. “I’m not about to go out and dance with Melody for everyone’s entertainment as I did when I was six—I can take care of myself.”

“No, you obviously cannot, since you wouldn’t even be attending if it wasn’t for Clara and me demanding it. How do you think it would look if the Marchioness Kasterborous and Gallifrey, not even in her station a year, hosted a ball and her husband refused to show himself? It would send all the wrong messages.”

“…which are…?”

“…that you don’t really care about Clara or me, worse: that you don’t really care about the guests,” she scolded. “Now get a move on; people should start arriving any moment now.”

“Remind me after this I deserve a nice, long vacation, somewhere things make sense… like the Daleki Front,” he scowled.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Try me.”

Irritated, the Serdaressa hit the Marquis’s shoulder and ushered him from the room. The Marchioness was waiting for them in the corridor, donning a red dress that matched her husband’s cloak and the tiara of Companions Past in place atop her hair.

“You were right to want to coordinate,” she noted. The three began the walk towards the ballroom, the liege lord and lady walking in-arms. “I have noticed that is one of your favorite cloaks.”

“They are all well-used.”

“You look good in it—don’t squander that.”

“You gave it to me and I squander none of your gifts.”

“Stop with the flirting; we’re almost there,” the Serdaressa sniped gently. Her son-in-law glared at her as she gave a smirk back—she was unapologetic and she was fine with that.

As the Marquis, Marchioness, and Serdaressa went through the mass of lords and ladies that were milling about the great dining hall, tending to their guests, the latter noticed something about the former two. She saw them steal glances at one another, their eyes laughing and filled with what she could almost decode as desire. Smiling to herself, she hoped that there was more there than she was even reading and that she would be pleasantly surprised in the months to come, with special announcements and embarrassed admittances. It was only a matter of time, she knew, and then the family could continue to grow and be happy once again.

Dinner was soon served, and after dinner there was dancing. Everyone made their way from the grand dining hall towards the governance hall, where musicians sat upon the bare dais and played idly whilst waiting for the host and hostess to open the floor. They did so with a flourish, the entire hall watching them as they twirled around the hall. Others joined in for the next dance, and the next, and soon even those who only had a scant idea of their hosts’ situation were intrigued by the length at which they danced with one another.

A moment of silence passed and the orchestra began yet another song, the steps to which were well known as not being for a man and a woman to dance together. The Marchioness found the Earlessa Braxos and the two chatted as they made their way around the room; this allowed their husbands the opportunity to find a glass each as well as a wall with which to linger.

“They get on so well—it makes me glad,” the Earl chuckled. “I was afraid that when you remarried with no one else around that it was because you were marrying a beast you wished to hide away as in some lurid novel.”

“Clara is anything but a beast,” the Marquis nodded. He took a sip from his drink and watched their wives dance. “At least now Saibhra has a spare dance partner for when neither of us can be bothered. Things are much easier now that Clara is around—you honestly have no idea, Psi.”

“Yes, I do have an idea, and now you can finally get back to living,” the Earl stated. When he heard no answer from his friend, he glanced over at him, seeing that he was merely watching the two women and nothing else. No… he was watching the Marchioness. “Johan, why did you agree to marry Clara?”

“Her father needed to prevent a societal disaster and I required an heir—our marriage fulfills both objectives.”

“What…? You never mentioned anything about her being worldly outside of a society marriage. Was she not a maiden when you wed her?”

“On the contrary: she still is.”

“Stars, Johan; you better have a good reason as to why you are not bedding your wife nightly.”

The Marquis watched as the dance continued, paying attention to the way the Marchioness’s dress flared out and her hair moved as she spun around. “I married her because I knew that Oswald would have given his daughter nothing but the finest education in land management and other noble duties. Blackpoole might have scoffed at her, yet I know better. Her talents are far beyond most and the past few months have proven that my gamble has paid off. She is a quick mind and a quicker wit—Kasterborous and Gallifrey shall be in good hands.”

“Not this again,” the Earl scowled. “You’re such a bloody self-imposed martyr that you can’t even realize you haven’t taken your eyes off her the entire night.”

“I have not.”

“Yes, you have! You’re still staring at her!”

“I am monitoring the party.”

Braxos simply shook his head. “Don’t lie to me—I haven’t seen you look like that in years.”

“Look like what?”

“As though you’re about to drag your wife into a hidden room and make up for lost time by allowing her to take you for everything you can offer,” the Earl deadpanned. “For stars’ sake, Johan, go romance your wife. That’s how most people go about making proper heirs.”

“I’m not meant for her,” the Marquis muttered sourly. “She was promised all of Kasterborous and Gallifrey for herself—I cannot deny her that now.”

“She already has Kasterborous and Gallifrey,” the Earl pointed out. “You are being silly; there is no need for you to waste away, pining in solitude, whilst Clara is right there. Melody would not want—”

“You do not know what Melody would want,” the Marquis growled. He fluffed his cape and stormed off, not caring who saw him as he retreated to Castle Gallifrey’s private corridors.

Shutting the door hard behind him, he sat at the table beside the window, slumping over onto the smooth wooden surface and hiding his face in his arms. Realization was hitting hard, proving to his embarrassment that his friend had to point out the entire situation, spelling it plainly. Tears overcame him and he began to sob—things were not supposed to be this way. The pain was not supposed to be this real and the desire had never been planned upon. He shivered in agony as the front of his trousers hardened whilst his thoughts refused to stray from the recipient of his affections; how did she reawaken such emotions in him? Earl Braxos now knew, which meant it was only a matter of time before…

A hand rested on the Marquis’s shoulder and he twitched back in surprise, nearly jumping out of his chair. After blinking away the tears, he saw the Marchioness standing in the red moonlight, her hand outstretched to where he had been just moments before. Her eyes were wide and confused, larger and rounder than he had ever seen.

“Johan…?” she whispered. “Are you alright?”

“Leave me alone,” he requested. He looked away, burying his face in his elbow, only to feel her hands rest against his knee. She leaned against his leg, staring up at him as she knelt at his side.

“What happened?” she wondered. He did not answer. “Don’t tell me it is the ball getting on your nerves…”

“No,” he croaked out.

“Then why did you leave so suddenly? Our guests deserve some sort of explanation when they realize that you are no longer down there with them.”

“Tell them that I have fallen ill.”

“Is that one of the Doctor’s lies?”

“…not entirely.” He sat upright and kept his gaze away from his wife, instead taking in the stars hanging in the blood-red sky. “There is a sickness in me that I cannot shake—I thought it would pass, yet I have now realized it has long ago set in and that it only grows stronger with each passing day.”

“A sickness…?” The Marchioness stared at her husband in the moonlight—aside from the tears that stained his face and eyes, he seemed the image of health. “What sort of sickness?”

“One I thought I would never experience again, that I truly thought I was immune to until earlier this evening,” he claimed. Only then did he then look at her, his hearts in pain at the sight of her concern. He took her hand in both of his and brought it to his lips, kissing the tips of her fingers tenderly before pressing another kiss to her knuckles, drinking in the sight of her as he did so.

“Johan…” she breathed in surprise. “When did this happen?”

“I am unsure.”

She stood and held his face in her hands, wiping away his tears with her thumbs. “You are an idiot, you know that?” She bent down and kissed his forehead before burying her nose in his hair. “It’s just a good thing you are my idiot.”

At that, he slid from the chair to the floor, kneeling at his wife’s feet. He looked up at her, his eyes beginning to water yet again.

“It hurts,” he whispered. “Why does it hurt so much?”

“You are a good man, or at least you try to be, and that is why,” she explained. She stroked his hair and gazed at him adoringly. “Let me make the appropriate excuses and finish off the ball; stay here and calm yourself in the meantime. You are no good to me a weepy mess.”

“As my liege lady commands,” he replied. She then left the room, giving him the opportunity to reflect in silence. A wary maid brought him tea and his confused mother-in-law checked in, leaving after barely accepting a half-hearted lie, all while he sat brooding by the window. He looked at the stars and wondered when it was he first felt such things over his wife; they had not sown affection, nor had they known one another for barely a year. The prospect was terrifying.

Eventually, the Marchioness returned, having closed the ball and sent guests both away and to their rooms. She silently crossed the bedchamber and put one arm around her husband’s shoulder whilst she used her other hand to tilt his chin towards her.

“Let’s take this slow,” she said, her voice slightly roughed from the ball. “We shall not bed each other, though I shall still sleep with you in my arms tonight. How does that sound?”

“Like beyond anything I deserve,” he replied.

Smiling in satisfaction, she took her hand from his chin to the clasp of his cloak, unlatching it so that the garment fell and draped itself atop the chair. She gingerly sat on his lap as she moved to the buttons of his jacket, exposing neck, then shirt, for only her eyes to see. Once done, she eased the jacket off his shoulders and leaned in to whisper huskily in his ear,

“Show me what you are hiding.”

Obligingly, the Marquis stood and began to peel away his outer layers, exposing himself for her. Boots, shirt, undershirt, trousers, stockings, undertrousers; it all went until it was finally just him. He stood there bare for her for the first time since their wedding night, though with a vulnerability that was entirely brand new. She stepped forward and put her hands on his chest, staring up at him cautiously.

“I am not looking for a pretty young man to seduce,” she warned him. “I want to flirt with a mountain range; steadfast, difficult, and just a bit dangerous. If you wish to be my paramour, if you wish to court me, then you must know that I do not compromise, not on this.”

“Then you shall have it,” he promised. He brushed his fingertips along the side of her face, trembling as he took off her tiara and placed it on the table. “This no longer fits you.”

“If not, then what does?”

“A proper coronet, fit for the Doctor.”

“…but you are the Doctor…”

“…as are you—that much has long been proven—and you shall share my title soon as I can manage.” A chill ran through him and his expression turned bashful. “May I put on my nightdress?”

“You may.”

She watched as he covered himself, his ears, neck, and face going pink with blush. Instead of teasing him, she took his hand and led him into her quarters, guiding him towards the bed. After he was sitting, she kissed his forehead and backed away, keeping their eyes locked the entire time. A few quick tugs at the laces on her dress and it pooled at her feet. She stepped out of her dress and shoes, taking care of her corset, stockings, and underthings as she moved forward. The Marchioness allowed her husband to view her in profile as she went into the peony-laden bedside table to fetch her own nightdress, which she pulled over her head with one deft motion.

“How did you not look like that on our wedding night?” the Marquis wondered quietly. He complied as he was gently eased down onto the mattress and covered in blankets, with his wife joining him from the other side of the bed.

“Easy: you did not see me, nor did I see you,” she reminded him. “We saw the means to other goals when we were with one another that night. Now…” She eased him on his side and pressed herself up against his back, hugging him close. “Go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And so they did.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The following morning, the Marquis woke slowly, feeling the most content he had been in a long, long while. He was in his wife’s bed, facing the window as the violet dawn was giving way to blue skies. Shifting, he found that he was alone, rumpled bedding being the only sign that another had even been there. Sitting on the other pillow was a note, however, which he unfolded and read.

“Johan,” it read.

“Stay in and take a late morning, to give credence to our excuse from last night. Staff has strict instructions to let you be aside from leaving some breakfast by the fire. I see now that this ball has been incredibly hard on you; maybe next time things shall be better.

“Yours, Clara”

The Marquis smiled at the note, folding it back up and carrying it with him as he left the bed and plodded through the door that brought him to his chambers. A tray with toast, jam, some bacon, tea, and a single gardenia blossom in a stem vase sat out near the fire, which was warming the room finely. He changed from his nightdress to proper trousers and a jacket, rereading the note again and again as he pulled on his boots and cloak. Once he had read through it ten times he set it next to the portrait on the mantle for safekeeping; he was about to eat and did not want it dirtied.

“Eirigh,” he said as he placed his hand along the teapot’s side. Golden dust swirled around the container and soon his tea was hot again. He poured himself a cup and began to pace around the room, going over what would still need to be done in his mind. There was cleaning up from the ball—reverting the governance hall to its normal setting, the storage of all the extra dining ware, finding of all the nooks and crannies that now required tidying—and the dispersal of guests. Once all that was done, extra pay would need to be administered to the varying clerks and other staff members who halted their duties to become temporary help elsewhere in the castle cooking and cleaning, not to mention the bonuses for those who were regularly cooking and cleaning for all the additional tasks they had undertaken; and after then…

Suddenly, the Marquis stopped his pacing and placed his cup and saucer down on the table. He glanced around the room, attempting to find the source of the presence he now felt. It grew stronger as he approached the mantelpiece yet again, with him realizing what it was almost immediately.

“Oh, Melody, forgive me,” he sighed, picking up the portrait. “My love for you has not waned, but Psi is correct, funny as that seems. I have grown a desire for Clara without damaging what I had with you, and I have realized that to follow you into the earth now would mean not even attempting to honor your memory. She has become my second chance.” He replaced it, face-down, allowing his hand to linger before letting go. “I finally see now what Mama has been telling me all these years. She has taken such good care of me; it’s about time I begin to listen.”

He went to his tea and picked it up again, resuming his breakfast contently. There was much to consider now—he had the future to look forward to for the first time in years—and it felt almost novel, in a way.

“Clara, my Clara,” he said guiltlessly to the empty room. “I am ready to begin moving forward.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Rigsy noticed a change in his liege lord and lady not long after the societal ball that brought many from elsewhere in the kingdom. Despite the fact that his employers had wed for practical purposes, little things began to happen that signaled a change in them both. A touch of a hand here, a long gaze there, and there was even a lingering hug—a hug!—that the Marchioness gave the Marquis from behind one day as he was at his work. The act sparked hope in the man, making him wonder if his daughter would have a playmate sooner rather than later. To have the governance of Kasterborous and Gallifrey be shared by a pair besotted with one another could only mean great things for the future, so he kept his words to himself, quietly observing the first signs of romance so as to not spoil them.