Time now for Chapter 3 of On the Fly, the premiere serial set in our gameworld of Mal Nassrin. If you missed the first two chapters, read them here.

On the Fly
By Bonnie Rutledge
Chapter 3

Lyrio emphatically did not expect to see Zephra again. He scratched his head, puzzlement lingering as to why she had wanted to see him in the first place. Zephra had been—ahem—a sociable female, demonstrating a generous fascination with his glider routes over the walls of the city. Still, Lyrio endured a persistent sense of inadequacy, as if the encounter was all a matter of mistaken identity, and he simply hadn’t been caught out yet as a fake and opportunist.

Opportunist? Him? The role continued to strike Lyrio as a mite far-fetched. After all, a woman of Zephra’s—ahem—profession, certainly could do better than a glorified postman for scintillating conversation and...

His memories drove Lyrio to absently grab the first piece of paper he could lay his hands on and mop his brow.

Buckles. All those buckles. Were handmaidens not meant to tackle that sort of thing? At the very least, there had to exist fellows of a more dashing mien than Lyrio to perform a more thorough job of what came after.

Lyrio also maintained a fair level of confidence—borne of hindsight—that it was an all-around unhealthy affair to so much as breathe the same air as a Councilor’s lady-in-waiting when said Councilor was not present with smiles and blessings.

Lyrio patted his forehead for a second round, this time brought about by his predictions involving the future and his neck.

The trouble that wouldn’t stop nagging Lyrio remained that he had actually enjoyed himself, every terrified, titillated moment. He hadn’t known what to expect. The excitement! The adventure! He had only remarked its like the first time that he had dared his glider into the air. Lyrio Bregna: he was now a man of danger!

Well, he had been for an afternoon. Lyrio tossed the damp paper back upon his desk with a defeated sigh. Then, heart palpitating, he noticed that the abused parchment had been a registered birth announcement for one of the local Patronas, now sporting the child’s name lamentably smudged out with his sweat. With a gargled yelp, Lyrio scrambled for his magnifying lens and quill.

"Vito...? Vita...? Wifla..." Deducing these things amounted to a toss of the dice, but the wealthy were rather peculiar about protecting their children’s identities. This backlash had come from the cutthroat fashions of those who wanted to emulate the powerful. Every time a Senator or imperial dilettante named their newborn something ingenious like "Psopheria" or "Knugarius," a flurry of middle-class "Psopheria" and "Knugarius" babies ensued like clockwork.

When the Senators began to complain over the indignity of their Psopheria Luteus being confused with the Psopheria Jonases of the world, an industrious official decided he would allow the notable to register their child’s name for a period of 13 years, leveling the playing field through a marriageable age (with appropriate taxes and documentation of course).

Such were the ways of the rich. Nausea bubbled in Lyrio’s gullet at his catastrophic mistake. A boy... a girl... he had not the foggiest notion what the highborn sprout was supposed to be. If the documents reached the capitol with the wrong name—the wrong sex!—and the flaw was traced back to him—and it would be—his livelihood would be in shreds. Suddenly, Lyrio felt a complete fool. Who was he to daydream of danger and damsels when he was a handful of consonants and vowels away from disaster?

The lobby erupted with a thump. A scatter of shrieks broke through his haze of panic. Lyrio smoothed his hands over the ruined letter on top of his desk as an odd haze of tranquility overcame him. Surely no one could know of his mistake yet? Of course not. He should see to the fuss while he still had his job. It was, after all, his responsibility.

Lyrio’s office door slammed open. Maron the butler glowered from the threshold, bellowing over his shoulder, "What?! I’ll give you something to stare at, the lot of you munters..."

The Feyborn was off in a blind rage, toppling cabinets and baskets of sorted missives, juggling whatever bodies did not dodge out of his way fast enough. "Bring me the elf!" Maron rumbled. "Bring me the elf, or I’ll break every last paper-pushing finger like a biscuit!"

Lyrio leapt from his chair, grabbed his heaviest satchel, and made a hectic search inside. All he found was a roasted potato meant for his noon-hour meal. He franticly crammed a paperweight and several of his clunkier legislative compendiums within, hauling the bag over his shoulder with a grunt.

"I give this—ha!" Maron ripped a league contract between the local metalsmith’s guild and the Narimiri government’s mining concern in half. "This for your bloody paperwork! And this!" Eight dozen wedding invitations met with rabid destruction.

"I want to see the elf, and I want to see him now!" Maron thundered like a mountain having a tantrum.

It was probably a coward’s way of going about it, but Lyrio happily socked the butler-run-amok in the back of the skull with his laden satchel.

Clonk.

The only shame was that the lug broke more when he landed than he had when conscious. Oh, well. Furniture could be replaced. Unlike replacing his career, Lyrio had forms for that.

Cold water splashed in Maron’s face, followed by an alluring whiff of whiskey. He winked open an eyelid and found the elf mincing over him. "Why am I on the floor?"

"You cannot fly?"

"Hi, elf." Maron’s head felt lanced with a kebab. "Is that whiskey here for me to drink, or do I just get to flirt with it?"

The elf had the stinking nerve to deliberate. He still looked skittish about it, but Maron definitely saw a distinct pause as the pup considered withholding the whiskey. "Will the drink make you nicer?"

"I’ll be bloody horrible without it," Maron promised him.

Lyrio relinquished the glass. Maron sat up to drink, wincing as the alcohol stung clear through to the back of his skull. "Did you hit me, puppy?" he asked, feeling betrayed by the entire concept. Who was the butler around here, anyway?

The elf stood, occupying himself overmuch with the wrinkles in his robe. "I am responsible for the people in this office," Lyrio said, his voice low but firm. "I cannot allow you to crash about, hurting innocents and yelling my name."

"Oh, can’t you?" Maron snorted.

"You destroyed hours’ worth of notary work, you cracked ribs, and..." The postman slumped into his chair, defeated. "Well, you frightened people. People who’ve never been frightened before. What would Zephra say of that? Hmm? Whatever happened to discretion?"

Maron ignored Lyrio's attempts to guilt him in favor of tapping his new, favorite drink. "This boff didn’t come out of a wheelbarrow," he said, gulping the remains of his glass. "This is a honey-brown, dappled mare of a whiskey. Nice."

The elf fidgeted. "So you have nothing to say of Zephra?"

"What I have to say about Zephra would turn your doily ears red. Not for the likes of you, pup. What I will say is I don’t expect a fellow to afford such a fine decant for his personal, private pleasure out of his petty postal militia wages. A little flimsy with the office budget, are we? Good for you! I never thought you had the bark in you, puppy!"

"At times, the postal brigade has quite prestigious guests," Lyrio said defensively, adding in a prissy, indignant stomp. "They get thirsty!"

"None of us are beyond reproach, pup. Not you, not me, not Zephra..." Maron hauled himself off of the floor before he said too much. He was not paid to talk.

A dreg of the cool water the postman had splashed in his face dribbled alongside Maron’s left nostril. He set his glass down in front of his reluctant host, casually picked up a square of parchment, and proceeded to wipe his nose.

The elf let out a howl then, the satisfying kind of howl that comes from ripping out a vital organ when your mark is still awake and talking. "Not with that!"

Maron looked down at the now-wadded, blotchy paper, feeling he’d accomplished something ingeniously terrible, yet clueless as to how he had managed it. "What? What is this?"

"The birth certificate for Councilor Dolmathus’s youngest."

"Youngest what?"

The elf sighed pitifully. "I honestly don’t know."

"The Mithera is registering the name isn’t she? That’s got to be a clue."

"Why don’t you read the document to me, and we’ll both be surprised?" the elf suggested.

Maron patted methodically at the blobs on the wrinkled parchment for several diligent seconds before he eyed the postman suspiciously. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"Would you like some more whiskey?" The elf pulled out a second glass from his desk and poured a generous fistful.

"That I would." Maron abandoned the notion of glassware and swiped the bottle. The elf did not offer the first whimper of protest. He was lost in thought over something that made his silver forehead crinkle like a hand organ. If Maron didn’t know better, he would say the postman’s ears drooped.

The elf’s abandonment of quivering panic in his presence unsettled Maron. It made for a sore step down from the pup’s earlier attitude. Zephra’s been telling him unthreatening things about me, he thought. Or...

It was as if the elf had too many troubles of his own to bother being terrified of hired muscle squatting on his office floor. It bruised the ego to be demoted like that.

"Am I interrupting something? I could crack your head open with this bottle, you know," Maron reminded helpfully. "Don’t you think you should squirm a little?"

"Hmm," the elf said as he methodically swirled his whiskey, watching the amber glitter of light play off the liquid. "I’m considering it."

Maron looked at him. Hard. There was something a little crazy about the postman’s eyes as he did his considering that made Maron sweat under his breastplate.

"Do you know," Lyrio asked with a hint of a hysterical giggle, "how long it takes for a name registry to travel to the capitol, be processed by the imperial authorities, and return to the proud parents with the official seal?"

Maron couldn’t decide whether to shake his head or hit the elf upside his. Instead, he took another swig of whiskey. It was an excellent choice.

"Before the air service," the postman continued giddily, "the process took a good six to eight weeks. Do you know what can happen in six to eight weeks? Do you understand the logistics nightmare of ferrying a single piece of parchment between continents, facing blizzards, bandits, brigands, and worst of all, imperial bureaucracy?"

Maron was surprised that the elf had managed to become even more confusing. "What blizzards? It only snows at birthday parties." He scratched his head, wincing as he encountered the bump on his crown. "Lathuz above! If I’d been born one of those icemaker clowns, I’d have asked anybody keen to put me out of my misery with the first chill." Maron felt his sense of rightness with the world return now that he had found a comfy rant in which to swaddle. He clomped around the office, thumping books and maps as he went. "Don’t get me started on the mages."

The postman offered him a beatific grin. Maron scowled and kept clomping.

"Do you know there are some mages who become icemakers on purpose? They tool around for years at that school they built on the volcano creating snowballs and making ale cold—ale cold!—then they come back to decent places with decent folk where there are deserts as the gods intended, they plop on the white greasepaint, and they freeze over every decent pond for miles whenever a Miss Kora or Mister Koru turns seven! Pah!"

"No one should ever go to that school built on the volcano," the elf stated matter-of-factly. "Why, that is just asking to ruin your life!"

Maron appreciated the encouragement. "You said it! Pah! They say those icemakers like children." He spat in fury, blotching the plaster on the wall. "Bunch of pervs, if you ask me. Never trust a clown carrying a snowcone, I say! Don’t do it!" A vision of a frosty stout flashed through Maron’s head, making him see red. "I hate them!" he roared, smashing the now-empty whiskey bottle against the corner of the postman’s desk. "If I had one of them here, I’d do this..." Maron ripped a portrait of the Primarch off the wall and crushed it, frame and all, in his bare hands. "...And this!" He could seem to stop himself, stomping blindly on anything he could pound beneath his boots.

The elf was strangely sympathetic. He rose from his desk and patted Maron on the arm, soft enough that it tickled. "It is a good thing your master does not have children, eh?"

Maron tried to picture Master Aenarii indulging a monstrous production involving streamers and icicles. He couldn’t do it. Thoughts of the Councilor and children brought the most petrifying visions. "The Master’s not dumb enough for that. Can’t risk having a kid cut from the same cloth, right?"

"I... suppose. You would know him better than I." The elf squinted at Maron curiously, but gave his arm another tickle-pat. "But we should leave this disconcerting talk of blizzards for another time."

"We should?" Maron still felt rather upset about the ice-cold beer.

"Since I began the flying post, the mamas and papas that rule our fair nation no longer have to wait six to eight weeks for their precious poppets to have their registered names." As the postman spoke, Maron noticed his expression sinking into a vortex of defeat. "Every few days," he said, "the service launches a glider north, and their document reaches the capitol almost overnight. There’s really no excuse for it to be lost on the way anymore. It’s always on someone’s head." The elf delivered an infinitely forlorn sigh. "And when something goes wrong, the parents will know exactly who to blame." Maron watched him sniffle, then sit on the floor, as crumbling and dejected as the debris Maron had thrown there. "I am living on borrowed time, Mary."

"Ah. That reminds me." Maron ignored the postman’s annoying familiarity and hunched next to the openly weeping elf. "You’re absolutely right, pup, and I think we finally have the appropriate mood going for me to get on with my work." He clapped Lyrio’s shoulder in a business-like grip. "They’ve sent for you."

The elf hiccupped in surprise. "They?" he repeated.

"The Master..." The postman’s expression was a knot of fatalistic bemusement. "How lovely."

Zephra pressed her cheek into the warm, unyielding windowpane. In the distance, she could see the imposing curves of the gladiators’ amphitheatre and the crowds that swarmed triumphantly from the shelter of its arched gates. For them, the afternoon had provided a satisfying spectacle in the open air with the early autumnal smells of roasted walnuts and wilted honeysuckle.

Zephra drew lazy figures on the glass with her finger. Of course it was satisfying for them. They were free to come and go as they pleased. They were not trapped in a damnable villa, cut off from the entire damnable city with him.

Zephra was not feeling sorry for herself. She wasn’t.

She was...

Frustrated.

She hated waiting. Zephra had never been patient, even as a child. She had been born several weeks early—in a hurry to see the world to hear her mother tell it. She had wandered far afield as a toddler more than once, leaving her parents to despair over finding her fished out of the river by a bear. Precocious, her papa had called her indulgently. She had developed curves and a carnal curiosity to match while her playmates were still interested in catching bugs at twilight-time. Fast, the neighbors had branded Zephra, and with good reason.

So, while she lived as a veritable princess in her glorious tower, granted luxuries daily at her slightest whim, each day proved torturous for Zephra because she was forced to wait. For him.

When she received an invitation from Desonir Aenarii, Zephra had been eager. Greed, of course, spurred her interest. The Council that ruled Mal Nassrin was relatively small, but composed of extremely powerful, sinfully wealthy men and women by Narimiri standards. Romance, kindness and mutual interests simply did not enter the equation where the first families were concerned, so these factors had never crossed Zephra’s mind.

Zephra had been in a comfortable arrangement with a gem merchant who demonstrated an encouraging degree of generosity with his wares. Still, he was only a commonplace merchant. As they said in the market, a topaz is nothing compared to a diamond. Why buy the first when you can barter the second?

Desonir Aenarii was practically royalty in the city, renowned and spoken of frequently, even if no one ever saw him or could elucidate the details of what he did. Gossips needed only to signal with his name and eager ears would huddle around for the latest news. It did not matter that their confidences boiled down to threadbare ditties such as, "I heard that Gaetus Traq had a meeting with Councilor Aenarii," or "The Councilor bought four new rugs!" Whatever they offered in the way of rumor, a pendulous silence would always follow amidst the crowd of desperate, reeling listeners.

Zephra’s imagination had extracted epic adventures from such simple sentences. At his beckoning, she practically ran to the Aenarii villa.

In a hurry. Precocious. Fast.

Thus began her first wait for an audience in this cloister, eating sweetmeats while Mary pretended to not stare at her while she was not looking. She imagined the gossips offering up news of her fortune, "Ah, the infamous Zephra Djoubda’ir—so beautiful that even Councilor Aenarii invited her to dinner! Three kinds of figs!"

Zephra’s anticipation made the minutes fly. The type of fame that the gossip would bring was a coup; a smart woman could make a profitable career out of being notorious with very little effort in Mal Nassrin. More than that, she had adored the excitement that the unknown brought her that day. Since she had come to the city, she had been on a mission of discovery, an adventuress set upon trying something new. Where Councilor Aenarii was concerned, she had only the hint of secrets to tantalize her. A life cloaked in forbidden shadows—that was her host. She dared too much, laughed too loudly, tried everything too soon, and he was exactly the kind of stimulation she lived for.

When Desonir had finally put in an appearance, her heart had quickened. Not out of surprise—Zephra had expected the mask of Cathoun. She would have been blind to be unaware of the man’s agents wearing his seal as they went about his business in the city. She knew he was rarely seen, had heard it whispered that he covered his face. Some said it was to protect his identity from assassins; others claimed it was a vain affectation. Zephra honestly did not care which was true.

Her heart had pounded because she was face to face with a mystery, the reality of who Councilor Aenarii was. His mask made for a delicious piece of forbidden fruit, and, as Desonir’s new consort, Zephra had thrilled with the certainty that she would learn all there was to know about what lay under the enticing peel—so to speak—once they were in the bedchamber. For all she was an opportunist, a woman of questionable morals and unquestionable avarice, Zephra had one saving grace: she would trade away coin and crown alike for the experience. Far worse than a life spent in poverty and labor would be no life at all, and Zephra was determined above all things to enjoy every day immensely.

The Councilor had presented her with a feast, the like of which she had never seen. Granted, Zephra had done all the eating. Each exotic dish excited her palate and did more to seduce her than any commonplace bracelet or brooch. Desonir had watched her indulge, posing questions that she answered in between morsels.

Strangely, she had never conversed at length with a man over such a variety of topics before. Flirtation was their usual subject of interest, which she did not disavow; it served a delightful purpose in its own way. The downside with flirtation was that, too often, her targets had not put up much thought to the affair. They were less concerned with keeping her on her toes than they were in getting her on her back.

Desonir, however, made her think. His questions had probed beyond fashionable discourse. He had wanted to know what she thought of crime in the city, whether the work gangs of the late Councilor Lerotine should be reinstated to complete the languishing public buildings and keep the rabble under lock and key. He had debated gods and taxes. Zephra had found herself in a veritable dungeon of conversation, full of traps and treasure alike.

She found his voice charming, full of sharp humor and tinged with a gravelly roughness that made her think of desire. When she took the time to examine it in a more practical manner—much, much later—Zephra admitted to herself that his voice was probably husky from regular smoking of the schischa pipe and not from an all-consuming lust for her body or intellect, but she vastly preferred the self-flattering illusion.

As that first meal wound to a close, Zephra had been ready to crawl onto the table and beg him to take her, to keep her. She wanted more questions, more answers, and when he stood, enveloping her palm in his gloved grip, tremors teased Zephra in places she had not realized she possessed.

Then Desonir simply shook her hand and wished her a good night.

To think their encounter was over had hurt. Ever more striking was the panic that she had failed to rise to the challenge, that she lacked appeal, and that—for all she was eager for more of his—Desonir Aenarii had declined the pleasure of her company. Released to the butler’s care, Zephra had seen an embarrassing return to the front door and the now-intolerably-boring jeweler in her future. This realization brought along a primal sting of regret.

But, instead of the street, Mary had ushered her to a new set of rooms meant for her use. Fickle elation had surged through Zephra again. That euphoria swept her through the next day, prescribing all manner of excuses for Desonir’s mixed signals. She pretended that he had been kind and worried that she had found his masked presence off-putting. She imagined that his husky throat might have indicated a cold, that her answers to his questions had given him a great deal to think about, that maybe, just maybe, he considered her different, special... interesting. More than anything, Zephra wanted him to find her interesting.

After that dinner, Zephra’s thoughts snuck into the precarious territory of romance. It came unbidden. She dared quite a bit and quite often, but even Zephra knew that some adventures were out of her league. Love was one of them.

Love was the sort of thing meant for families and equals, and—even as her head filled with silly thoughts that paid companions were not meant to indulge—she knew that the Koru of a first family was not destined care about how she felt. Perhaps he found her interesting. He must find her interesting.

Be interesting. Zephra silently repeated these commands until the evening drew nigh again, bringing with it another dinner with the Councilor.

This second meal brought certain things to light. More comfortable with her position, Zephra began to notice details about the table. For one, it was carved from stone rather than wood, as were the chairs—beautiful, yet cold, uncomfortable and unyielding. The food, though of fine quality, consisted of meats, cheeses and buttery sweets. Desonir served no wine, but a choice of plain water or an alternative concoction flavored with spices and honey. As Zephra began to digest these discoveries on her own, Des proceeded to outline the rules of his house.

The rules struck her as another mystery. No wood? No plants? No fruit? Curiosity made her wonder why he had chosen these particular preferences, but Zephra never questioned that Desonir’s aversions might be peculiar. In her line of work, the host inevitably revealed something peculiar.

At first, she took the constraints in stride. What bothered her more than the house rules was that Des still refrained from seeking any intimacies with her. She felt foolish to miss a contact that they had never had, but still she wanted it. Zephra had always thrown herself into whatever she desired, and she had always found success. Longing for anything after sunset was a foreign turn of events.

A day passed, another night, and Desonir continued to treat her to no more than conversation. While the talk had an intimate depth of its own—after all, reveal too many opinions, and one reveals one’s soul—an uneasy suspicion began to creep into Zephra’s thoughts that he was taunting her, trying to make her go mad with waiting for him to make a move. She was impatient, restless between a faint hint of yearning for something she could not quite recognize, and the worry that she would not be satisfied, either with or without it.

At the dawn of the fourth day, Zephra grew stir-crazy and decided to step outside for a breath of fresh air. Mary stopped her at the front portico. The Councilor had not given her permission to leave the confines of the house, he informed her, taking petty enjoyment in her disappointment. Zephra had attempted to seduce her way out, but Mary proved genuinely afraid of the consequences of disobeying his master on this point.

So Zephra waited until Mary was not at the door. She tried again while the Feyborn performed an errand, only to have another strong-armed servant bar her path. Zephra, precocious Zephra, asked Desonir for permission to visit the market that night, and he had refused. While she was still spinning over what to make of that refusal, Des had invited her to his private chambers, eclipsing all of her doubts.

After that night, Zephra began to wonder if Desonir Aenarii had not been put on Tolmira to torment her.

It was the waiting. He made her wait. Always.

She hated him for it, in a way.

And, in a way, she...

Zephra realized she had fallen into outlining plump hearts on the glass pane, and she let out a coarse bout of profanity.

"Sex," Mary’s voice answered. "Is that all you ever think of, you trumped-up tart?"

Zephra turned in her window seat to find Mary cradling the postman’s body in his arms again. This time, the elf was bewilderingly conscious. She scowled in exasperation. "What are you carrying him for?"

"He asked me to," Mary said defensively. "He said he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him. After only two fingers of whiskey, mind you. Pretty pathetic wobbling, if you ask me."

"You can put me down now," Lyrio said good-naturedly. "I don’t mind."

Zephra watched crossly as Mary went about gently complying with this request. It did not lighten her mood that the two men seemed to have reached a companionable dynamic for thug and prey after one short day of acquaintance. Her thoughts began to gnaw at how Lyrio could come and go as he wished, as well. Envy made her wonder why she had thought it such an appealing idea to invite the elf back.

"What’s this?" Lyrio asked, pointing at the table between them. "More, uh, buckles?"

The pile of fabric resting atop the table triggered her memory. Her frown deepened. "No."

Zephra watched Lyrio’s expression deflate and felt a pang of remorse. "I’m sorry, Lyrio... I am not in the mood anymore."

Mary emitted a choking sound. "That’s a first."

"Why do you do that?" Zephra jerked her right kapkap off her foot and whipped it at the butler’s head.

"Oof!"

"I’ve never done anything to you, Mary, yet all you offer me is ridicule." Zephra hobbled out of the window seat to retrieve her footwear for another volley. "Or is that your problem?"

"Oh, you’ve never done anything to me? Just a bleeding concussion!" Mary fumed as he rubbed his head. "And quit calling me Mary!"

"It’s an affectionate nickname, you idiot!" Zephra could tell her voice had grown shrill. She was certain the skin of her throat had tightened so that the tendons displayed in a stringy, unattractive manner, but she was too fed up to stop herself. The shrillness was liberating. "You are the only company I have every damn day, except for..."

She pointed at the elf. Mary’s gaze followed. Lyrio had lifted Zephra’s new dress off of the table as they bickered and now held it up against his chest, floating it gently to and fro as if to imagine how it would look when worn. Zephra sighed, suddenly feeling extraordinarily tired. "...Him."

Mary was unkind enough to snicker.

Lyrio stopped swaying and asked innocently. "What?"

"Oh, get out! Get out of my sight!" Zephra abandoned any plans to retrieve her stilted slippers, stripping off her spare and throwing them both at the annoying pair of men. She sank dejectedly to the floor as Mary departed on a roar of laughter.

Lyrio proved more reluctant to leave. He tiptoed across the room meekly, as if he realized she had begun to cry. She wasn’t quite sure why she was crying—she had always believed crying was an unimaginative way to deal with one’s problems—but she had tears, and they were coming from her eyes, and it seemed far, far too late to do anything about it.

The elf joined her, sitting next to Zephra on the tile floor, and he nudged her softly with his elbow.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello." Zephra sniffed. She could not stop herself from sniffing.

"I think," Lyrio continued thoughtfully, "that our Mary is not such a bad fellow. I mean, when he’s not thrashing somebody or making a complete shambles of the surrounding architecture, he’s actually quite decent."

Zephra nodded politely. She found his contented chatting oddly soothing. "He has worked for Desonir longer than anyone. He’s very loyal."

"And he’s a poet! Imagine that!" Lyrio exclaimed. "While he was carrying me here, Mary tested out a little verse he’s writing for his mother’s birthday on me."

"Oh. His poetry," Zephra always felt apologetic when she thought about Mary’s poetry. "It wasn’t the one that starts out ‘Hark ye the tale of the brave laundress, I sing her praises without duress...’?" She shook her head. "No, it couldn’t have been that one. He never would have finished reciting it before you hiked across town..."

"A condensed version, maybe. ‘The time has come to praise my Mum.’ That sort of thing." Lyrio shrugged. "Keep in mind that I was rather stumped by the concept of a Feyborn with a doting mother, and I think he’s a bit hung up about goats, but what I heard, at the heart of it, was rather sweet. Whatever it lacked in deft rhyme, he made up for in sheer enthusiasm and threats."

Zephra nodded. "Mary is enthusiastic."

She offered the elf an indulgent half-smile. Zephra had always believed that it took something special to see the good in others, mostly because people spent a great deal of time, effort and pomade to hide their lights under a bushel of deceit, violence, selfishness and general horribleness. To find anyone likeable for more than five minutes was a gift, of sorts. The elf had this gift in spades. "And he did not drop you. You must be friends now," she teased, heartened to see the elf blush with pleasure.

With that, Zephra decided it was time to pull herself up by her proverbial sandal straps. She tugged at a corner of the fabric Lyrio still hugged against his stomach and blew her nose in the folds, shaking off her fit of the weeps. "Excuse me. I must look a fright."

"Ah. There are women who would kill to have such a perfectly blotchy nose."

Zephra broke into a full smile despite her mood. No, the elf was not without a certain charm.

"They would kill for the new dress you just wiped that red nose on, too. Tell me, Zephra," Lyrio pushed, swinging the gown in front of him again. "What did this little garment ever do to make you so unhappy?"

"Desonir gave it to me." The explanation was woefully inadequate, and Zephra shook her head. "No. He had Mary give it to me. He never acknowledges my existence during the day. Des has a strict routine that does not involve sparing me a thought before sundown." She could hear the bitterness in her voice, the burgeoning resentment. Was she changing? Was this a sign of what she would become? Some shrill harpy who scowled at people and threw shoes instead of smiling, all because a silly thing like a man?

Your man, her thoughts whispered. You’ve become possessive, greedy girl. You want too much.

Lyrio measured his words carefully. "Was he pleased with your other outfit?"

No, he was not pleased.

"I still do not see the cause for unhappiness over such a gift," Lyrio prodded at her continuing silence.

"Des destroyed the other gown," she clipped. "I suppose this was his idea of an apology."

Lyrio showed the first hint of what she thought of as his ‘kicked puppy’ look resurging. "Uh, he destroyed it?"

"Yes. He lost his temper, made me take the dress off and burn it." At Lyrio’s bewildered expression, she patted his arm comfortingly, took the new gown from him, and explained further. "It makes perfect sense, really. It was linen, from plants, you see. Desonir has—I don’t know what you would call it—an all-consuming disgust of things made from plants. It was only natural that he found me disgusting in the dress as well."

"I see." Lyrio paused in thought. By his expression, he clearly didn’t. "Don’t you think that’s odd?"

"It’s not my place to consider the oddness of what my lord may or may not do. I underestimated how strongly he felt. It was unprofessional of me to not follow his instructions," she recited dutifully. She paused, her sophisticated façade buckling. "He was so upset..." Zephra shivered, the memory of rejection tearing her apart again. "I do not know why he embraces such dread. I only know that no wood, cotton or flax enters this villa. Did you not notice the entrance of the villa? It is gravel and fountains where other Patronas would boast the luxury of a garden."

Lyrio worried at the hem of his robe. "No flax, eh?"

"Do not fret, Lyrio. A Councilor is hardly likely to take notice of you." The elf was caught in a sudden fit of coughing. Zephra petted him soothingly on the back as she reminisced. "I haven’t had so much as a grape in months. And flowers... Voleta Palmyrna was the last woman Des sent flowers to, and she had to die to get them."

Recovering his voice, Lyrio said, "I always thought flowers were highly overrated. They wilt and shed. That’s not so romantic. Not like a nice dress," he finished weakly.

"Silk," Zephra said, her voice tinted with anger and self-disgust. "Des could have told me silk was acceptable earlier. Or I should have thought of it! It’s so obvious! I could have avoided... But what would it have mattered?" She wrung the fabric in frustration, breaking off her open rambling to ask somewhat accusingly, "You think I’m his mistress, don’t you?"

Lyrio squirmed uneasily. "Well, you certainly-"

"I stand naked before him, and he never touches me. He just looks, studying me like some insect in a glass jar." Bitterness seeped through Zephra. "It’s like he searches for my every imperfection and proceeds to torture me with it!"

But is that true? A small voice taunted in her head. Has he ever made you feel less than perfect without your help? Is it his fault you’ve become needy, that you want so much more than he offers? Impatient, precocious, fast—it’s a wonder you never tripped and fallen flat before now.

"Maybe there’s a..." Lyrio made a suggestive gesture, pulling her frown in his direction. "A physical reason for his behavior. Aenarii has never married as far as I remember, and the old families always seem very proud about producing the next little Kora or Koru in their legacy."

"No!" Zephra found the suggestion that Desonir might be impotent infuriating. The truth, even more so. "I’m not ignorant. I’ve seen the signs of his desire, but he ignores it to spite me!"

Lyrio remained unconvinced. "That sounds like a far-fetched proposition to me. I mean, look at you! Even red nosed and meepy, you’re... well, I’m sure Mary has a poem or two tucked in his breeches about it. This is Councilor Aenarii we are talking about! With the kind of power he has, there’s no reason for the man to resist anything."

"My, you’ve certainly become bold with your opinions compared to yesterday." Whatever nice thoughts she had about the elf were swiftly melting under the heat of an intense desire that he would just shut up. It was easy for Lyrio to judge. He hadn’t lived it. He had the luxury of not caring.

"Priorities can change very quickly," Lyrio declared solemnly. "I have decided that I do not have much left to live for. Resignation that I am doomed has proved rather relaxing."

"What are you talking about?" Zephra snapped. "You can come and go as you please. If Mal Nassrin fails to bring you fortune, you can fly anywhere and start over! You have everything to live for, you foolish man!"

"All right. I’m all a-bubble and joy, and you’re the sad sack. If you are so miserable with your situation, why don’t you leave?"

"Oh, you think that is a clever challenge, do you?" Zephra pushed from the floor and skimmed over to the sunny window. "No other patron in this town would touch me unless Aenarii gave his blessing." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lyrio stare bemusedly at his hands. "He blocks me from leaving, anyway. What waits for me anyplace else? I have a few baubles to my name, but I would surely starve if I tried to go."

It was strange. Zephra had imagined this conversation before issuing her first invitation to the elf. She had dreamed of it. She had plotted what she wanted, and how she would arrange it, yet now she was in the midst of the scene, reluctance settled in her stomach like a lead weight. She tread slowly back to Lyrio, pulling him to his feet, but she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes. "You can fly wherever you want," she stated, coating the phrase with a dose of significance.

Lyrio surprised her with a scowl. "Oh, but I suppose it is fine for me to starve? Right. Is this where you mention that I am used to drudgery for an honest living? Good old Lyrio, the lapdog postman—anything’s good enough for him!"

"Wait," Zephra said. "That is not what I meant." It certainly was not how she had planned he would respond. Her thoughts swum over the mess of her miscalculation, and she tried to replay where she’d gone wrong.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Him.

His voice was husky and smooth. Zephra shivered at it, just imagining his breath against her skin. She quickly dug her nails into the back of her hand. Had she not figured out by now that imagination was so much empty nonsense? She needed to think. Think.

She heard Lyrio gasp, but pushed any worry concerning his reaction or well being aside. The moment was too clouded as it stood. She turned without hurrying, believing herself prepared, but there he was: Desonir Aenarii in his full, imposing form. The sunlight streamed through the window, glinting off the jewels set in his mask of Cathoun. She failed to read him as she always did, blinded by his shuttered eyes and the shadowed line of his mouth, by his mystery.

No, Zephra thought, this was not what I had imagined happening at all.