#zarad

I finally had to come up with siblings for Valrise for this! 

Names and ages at the start of the fic, for anyone who likes a reference: Ophelia (10), Emmaline (8), Linette (7), Larissa (7), Rhiele (5), Tremont (4, first son), Cerise (2), Brandel (1, second son). Valrise is 6 years older than Ophelia and was probably an accident.

I Can’t Music, and attempting to research for this fic just got me lots of ads for children’s music lessons, so if I said anything that makes her sound like an idiot or is unrealistic, just let me know.

Minor content warning for the middle section (avoiding intimacy with her first husband). If you’re concerned, scroll to the end for details.

The piano was one of the few trappings of nobility they had left.

She suspected it was only still there because her mother hadn’t figured out how to get it down the stairs to sell. Or maybe she’d decided it compensated for the threadbare rugs and shelves conspicuously absent of curios. It made them look, perhaps, like they might hold social gatherings, have their talented daughters perform for their guests.

In reality, it was years out of tune, and of the seven daughters, 16-year-old Valrise was the only one with any idea how to play. There hadn’t been money for individual music tutoring since Ophelia was just starting on basic scales—a couple years of group vocal lessons, and then it was up to Valrise (“You have such a lovely voice, dear, I’m sure you can do better than that overpriced troubadour!”) By that point, the piano twanged unpleasantly, a bulky corner decoration rather than an instrument.

There were probably smarter things to spend her scrimped-together savings on, but…she missed it.

Getting the piano tuned did have a practical justification, she’d convinced herself—with Rhiele turning six, it’d make five of them passing the lap harp around during her attempts at music lessons. Counting Valrise, that would be six of them sharing it for practice. If they had the piano as well, there’d be more opportunity for everyone to practice instruments, more options for accompaniment, better chances for her sisters to grow the skills expected of noble ladies.

So she’d sold a brooch that had been a gift from an optimistic merchant’s son, and inquired around until she found a tuner with a good reputation who was willing to work cheaply. At least in this case. (She might have had to bat her eyelashes a bit and sigh wistfully about how much she missed playing, but in the end she’d gotten three piano tunings for the price of the brooch.)

Hopefully, her mother wouldn’t return from her outing until after the tuner was finished. She might not notice that the piano was suddenly in tune, but she’d have opinions on Valrise’s use of money, or perhaps take this as a sign they had some great trove of savings secreted away and she could afford some indulgences of her own.

Right on cue, the tuner closed his box of tools and stepped back with a smile. “It should be set, Miss—my lady. Feel free to try it out.”

She sat down hesitantly, hovered her hands over the keyboard. “I’m afraid I’m several years out of practice, so I’d request that you don’t judge my fumbles too harshly,” she smiled over her shoulder.

The first few notes were hesitant, but her hands remembered even if her mind didn’t, and soon her fingers were flowing over the keys, a song she couldn’t even recall the name of filling the room.

She hadn’t remembered how satisfying she found this—the range of notes, the expanse of the keyboard, the timbre.

The last note faded out and she came back to herself. “It—sounds lovely. Thank you.”

Movement at the door caught her eye, and she looked over to see Ophelia, Emmaline, and Larissa all peeking their heads into the room.

“I told you she’d be good at it,” Larissa whispered loudly to someone in the hall. Probably Rhiele—she still liked to hide from strangers, and Linette in her determination to be the “good twin” would never have abandoned her math exercises to spy on what was happening across the castle.

“Are you going to teach any of us?” Emmaline asked eagerly, noticing Valrise looking their way. “So we don’t have to share?”

“Of course,” she said, glad they seemed excited. This would be good for them. She knew it was the right choice.

The footman came over to show the tuner out, and the girls entered the room, Emmaline and Larissa rushing up to the piano and plinking at the keys while Ophelia came over to stand by Valrise.

“It’s good to see you play again,” she said quietly. “I missed it.”

“Me too.”

--

The floor harp was by far her favorite thing in the house. Her entertainment and her sanctuary.

The same talents that had helped her to catch a wealthy baron’s eye now also helped her play the part of an adoring wife without having to do anything terribly…wifely. He loved her singing, had had the harp and piano moved to the room below his study and bade her to play with the windows open.

She didn’t mind the man, but she felt no great passion, no tender affection at the thought of him. The thought of kissing him, of lying with him, left her with a sense of cool distaste. She endured the first, but for the other…

The dream-wine had been a terrible plan. It was miraculous it hadn’t crashed apart around her already.

She’d been so childishly terrified of that first night. She’d known the tincture was a soporific, one unpopular due to side effects of disturbingly vivid dreams, but quick-acting and accessible.  She’d just meant to delay things, let him think he’d nodded off after a night of feasting and put the whole affair off until she’d had time to settle in a bit.

But he’d pulled her close, gotten her bodice open before it took effect…and the next morning she’d discovered that if an idea were planted and the circumstances were believable, those “vivid dreams” could be mistaken for reality.

She should have taken that reprieve as the windfall it was and not pushed her luck. But it turned out that if you manage to avoid the first night, the next time…was still the first night.

And “settling in” turned out to be much less of a panacea than she’d hoped.

She could perform the part of the adoring and grateful wife when they were together, but too much and it got under her skin, made her sick with it, made her worry she might let the mask slip.

Playing, though—playing let her escape from pleasing her husband and please her husband all at the same time.

He thought the music was for him. It wasn’t.

And when her husband came in and kissed her shoulder, told her to wait up in her chambers that night, she’d only be acting the doting spouse if she prepared two goblets and some cut flowers, wanted to flirt a bit over a glass of wine before they got to business.

The problem was that it worked too well. She never meant to keep it going for an entire year.

She’d faked her way through one pregnancy already, “late courses” and “morning sickness” and a morning of dramatic weeping in the bathroom. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain the ruse. Soon she might need to—

A loud crash came from the study upstairs, and her fingers halted on the strings with an unpleasant twang.

“Darling? Is everything all right?”

--

“I believe,” Zarad says, “that you promised me a private concert.”

Valrise tilts her head in exaggerated recollection. “Oh? I’m fairly certain I said that I might give you a private concert, if you behave.”

He grins. “Exactly! So as we are surely in agreement that my behavior has been beyond reproach for at least the past three hours—”

She gives him a flat look.

“—and you carelessly neglected to specify a duration when making your promise—”

“It was hardly a promise—”

“—there is really no debating the fact that you owe me a private concert.”

“I suppose that’s fairly ironclad,” she says, walking over to the floor harp in the center of the music room he’s brought her to. She settles herself, takes a deep breath.

She plucks out a single chord, then stands. “Well, since I carelessly neglected to specify a duration in my promise… I hope you enjoyed your concert.”

Zarad laughs, eyes dancing. “Ah, but you must agree that the word ‘concert’ carries an implicit minimum length. At least a quarter hour, certainly.”

Part of her wants to keep arguing, silly hesitations holding her back. Her time with the Baron has turned the idea of playing for her husband into something underhanded, scheming—and as someone used to impressing people with her singing, she’s a bit worried she’ll come off lacking in comparison to the apparently legendary voice of his mother.

But he’s hardly the Baron, and she has no intention of giving up singing permanently, so better to take the plunge now than put it off. And in the end, she really does want to.

She pretends to consider for a long moment, then sits back down. “Fine. But if you get yourself murdered by a bookshelf while I’m playing, I’m going to be very cross.”

“I’ll be the very soul of caution,” he says. “Although, if there exists a bookshelf so determined to murder me that it manages to sneak its way into the music room, I fear I may have met my match.”

She laughs, bringing her fingers to the strings.

She plays.

And maybe it’s a little bit for him.

If you came down here for the detailed content warning: 

Beside her, Zarad pushed Sabine’s game chips over along with his own. “I am afraid we always sit at the card table with the princess to our doom.”

“She sure is--” Emmett started, interrupted by a tonsil-revealing yawn. “--the best here.  Sorry.”

Cordelia gave him a practiced and indulgent smile. “I hope you all have enjoyed yourselves.  I certainly have, but I am afraid I am quite tired.  I think I shall retire.”

“I think that is a good idea,” Clarmont said.  He stood to pull Cordelia’s chair.

“Oh, no!” Sabine protested.  She fluttered the fingers of one hand, a champagne flute in the other. “Oh, don’t go, loves!  I haven’t lost nearly enough yet!”

Cordelia, Clarmont, and Emmett smiled and made their apologies.  They left the parlor, leaving the dwindling little clusters of chatting delegates and the ever-deepening shadows.  It had become the habit of the more night- and company-inclined guests to linger together in the parlor for after-dinner drinks.  For the last few days Zarad and Sabine had run a cards table with rotating partners as their friend’s obligations changed.

Zarad leaned back to the little rolling cart with its ice bucket and pulled the champagne bottle out.  His silken robes slid a bit more open (shocking that such a thing was even possible!) and the low candlelight went gliding over his desert moon skin.  He caught her looking and gave her one of the smuggest smolders she’d witnessed yet.  She returned a very arch brow.

“Congratulations are in order,” he said, pouring the bottle’s last drops into his glass.

“Excuse me?  I know you are a little unique in the head, but you can’t have already forgotten that I am considerably lighter in the purse tonight.”

“Now, now,” he said. “You don’t have to be so modest with me.  You’ve succeeded in your greatest ambition, dear.  Quite an accomplishment!”

She sipped at her glass and didn’t dignify him with a comment.

Undeterred, he leaned forward with a smile and a wafter of spiced perfume. “You’ve finally gotten me alone, all to yourself.”

Sabine stared at him. “You know, you have gotten quite presumptuous of lately.  Assuming you know my mind before I do.  Quite ungentlemanly.”

“Gentleman?  I should hope I would never be called that.  I don’t know how well I could bear such an insult.  And the only thing I know is that I am helpless to stop the heights to which I bedazzle you.”

She placed her flute on the green felt of the card table and pulled some the discarded hands closer to them.

“I don’t believe that a bit,” she said, using a finger to flip some cards over, one by one. “In fact, I think-- no, I know you have caught on to more than you show.  So show me.”

He gazed at her with quizzical smile. “Show you?”

“Tell me which card I am.”

And she flushed then-- because his the muscles around his eyes relaxed that small bit that told her he was looking at her with the constant mask had lifted.  Lifted just enough for her to peek under-- but it was enough.  Those peeks felt like being trapped together, nose to nose, beneath a veil.  She wouldn’t say it, but he was right.  He bedazzled her with his night eyes.

Zarad looked down at the cards, his crooked smile curling back up.  His fingers danced over the remains of their games.

“It depends,” he said, tone low, “Which version of you we’re speaking of.”

She tilted her head, long earrings swinging. “I have versions?”

“If it is the Red Baroness of Revaire we speak of--”

He pushed a card face-up toward her.  The queen of clubs, wielding her scepter in a threatening fist.  The queen of violence.  Of aggression, self-service.

Zarad’s fingers left the queen of clubs to pick up another card. “If it is the public Sabine, the baroness you present to society--”

Beside the queen of clubs, he laid down another.  The queen of diamonds.  The materialistic woman.  Wordly and unmindful of greater concerns.

He gazed at her as he selected and put down a third card. “But beneath even that--”

The queen of hearts.  The queen of love.  Love both romantic and platonic, and the people’s queen.

Sabine propped her chin on a hand; Cordelia would be horrified at such a casual and unladylike pose.  But she couldn’t help it.  He was so dangerous, because he made her want to drop each and every facade and game.  She smiled at him.

He gazed back for a long moment.  He blinked and dropped his eyes to the cards, surprising her.

She tapped the queen of hearts sitting by her two sisters. “And this is the true Sabine?”

He smiled and stared at it. “I wonder.”

Before the moment went too long and too close, Zarad’s hand reached for the cards again.  He plucked one up, brows back down into their flirty set and his eyes glittering.

“As for myself--” He laid his card down with a flourish. “The jack of hearts: the constant servant and devotee to his queen.”

The jack and queen of hearts stared up at them from the green felt.  They certainly looked a pair, with their matching red ink hearts and twining roses.

Sabine hummed. “Again, you are always so slippery.”

“Oh?”

“In some games the jack is the highest ranking, and in others it is the lowest.  Your jack plays at the lover, but he is a trickster.” She raised a brow at him; he smiled vaguely. “I believe it is my turn?”

She reached forward and shifted through the mess of cards.  When she found it, she glanced up and carefully laid it down before him.

The king of hearts.

They were two of the last delegates left in the parlor, and she could feel the eyes of the servants at the edges of the room.  She was afraid there was a particular pair of violet eyes boring a hole in her head, but at the moment nothing mattered more to her than the eyes in front of her.

The king hearts is unique of all the kings, not holding his weapon before him.  Rather, his hand held a sword aloft, stabbing backward and appearing to go straight through his skull.  The suicide king, he’s called.  The king of sacrifice, of ill-fated ends.

She watched him stare at the card, and she watched him command the muscles of his face into a smooth facade.  She summoned her own soft smile, as aware as he of the eyes in the room on them.

“I worry,” she near-whispered, “That the path you’re on is treacherous and unforgiving.  It is narrow-- too narrow to allow you the comfort of your true thoughts and feelings.  That you kill the Zarad you deserve to be constantly.  Every day.”

She ran a finger up the side of the little paperboard card. “But you know, there is a different interpretation of the king of hearts; that he is not stabbing himself, but brandishing his sword high in victory.”

Her finger walked from the card across the table to his hand resting on the felt.  She slipped her fingers beneath his.  Their eyes met.

“That is the Zarad I see,” she said, voice so low it was little more than a silent mouthing.

His eyes roamed over her.  Then darted beyond her, and back again.  He smiled. “Then the situation is worse than I feared; you have become so bedazzled that you are quite seeing things.  It seems it is time for us to finally part-- no, don’t cling, dear, we must be strong.”

She slipped her hand from his with a wry glare, just as Jasper materialized silently at her shoulder.

“My lady--”

“Yes, Jasper,” Sabine said, standing.  Zarad stood as well, and she eyed him. “I was just giving some wasted advice to this fool I found here.  But I had best be on my way now.”

Jasper gave a half-bow and stood aside waiting.  She gave one last raised brow to the usual sparkling smoulder in Zarad’s eye, and she dipped into the habitual curtsy before turning.

And she stopped.  Because she’d laid her hand on the back of the chair she’d been sitting in as she turned to sweep her skirts free of the card table and its ornate chairs, and on the hand she’d so thoughtlessly dropped to the back of chair now laid Zarad’s hand.  His fingers caught her pinky and ring finger, and they lightly squeezed before letting go.  When she looked up, his smile did not pull a bit out of place or his eyes register anything out of his usual nonsense.

She did not fare so well.  The suddenness had surprised her, and so her defenses were quite helpless against the strange intimacy of such a small thing.  Heat rose in her face.