The chill was ever-present in the air now, the winter falling firmly across the countryside as the last vestiges of autumn had faded into the frost and freeze of winter. The courtiers in the royal palace draped themselves in their furs and thickest gowns and garb, staying in the public salons of the palace where most of the court gathered together for cards, conversation, and warm comfort.
However, the Duc de Chalasse was not to be refused his daily horseback ride. There was nothing that heated the blood like an invigorating gallop through the countryside with the cold air stinging one’s face. Though the younger men in his retinue joked about warm wine and warm women, Roland ignored them steadily. He was no green boy to run from the winter chill and take his warmth with a woman. He was in the winter years of his life, he had spent his spring and summer years with his love – while he remembered the blinding warmth of her, he had passed easily into his autumn and winter. Let the younger lords dance around the ladies for attention, he was well established without needing to debase himself with such sport.
The only sentiment he permitted himself—having well known when he was defeated – was a slow stroll through the royal glasshouses after his morning ride. He claimed it was to keep his aging joints loose with the warmth and steam of the conservatory. Plenty of the courtiers believed him too. He was Roland de Chalasse, his heart was stone as well they all knew. But he turned his steps to the brightest, warmest room of the glasshouse, where the king had had the dahlias planted.
Riots of color burst from the heavy stems, filling the room with bright jewel tones and the fragrance of the flowers.
In comparison, her dark hair and soft silver-blue gown seemed almost nondescript.
He paused, knowing she had heard his boots, watching her continue to lightly spritz one of the dahlia pots with water.
“I wondered if I would ever come upon you here,” he said, stepping deliberately into the room and tugging the riding gloves from his hand.
The angle of her cheek lifted in her smile as she set the glass atomizer down, wrapping her deep evergreen shawl firmly around herself as she turned to look at him. “It is my own little conservatory, the odds were good.” Sweeping him a little curtsy, she greeted him properly, “Your Grace.”
He offered a small bow in return. “My lady.”
“How was your ride this morning?”
“Invigorating.” He had kept his distance from her. There was business to do, she had her new apartments and life to settle into as well as the juggling of her responsibilities. But he had been watching, all of the courtiers had been, to see how she would manage this. It was the highest any courtesan had risen, there were plenty of wagers being made in the gaming salons of the palace and across the city as to what the future would hold. Some of the most cynic suggested she would bear a son first and the country would devolve into war.
Roland knew her better. And looking on her now, he could have felt melancholy that she had not accepted his suit, that he did not have a Duchesse to keep him company through the twilight years. But all he could feel was pride. He had ever prized cleverness, cunning, and power. She had proven herself quite adept at all three. His affection was unchanged, though he did not expect any more of her attentions now. He had told his granddaughter that he would follow the lead set by the king and queen and their courtesan and he would. He was a man of his word. But looking at her now…
“I have missed you,” she said, looking up at him. Were his thoughts so transparent? Or was she too kindred to him that their minds were walking the same path?
His hand reached to brush his knuckles across her cheek, a tiny, affectionate caress.
“Are you happy?”
He saw the surprise in her eyes that he would ask it so bluntly, but she nodded. “Yes.”
A small smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “And yet, still in need of allies in court.” There is still a place for you if you wish it.
He returned her tiny smile. “Of course.” I am a man of my word.
She nodded, her shawl sliding from her shoulders. Ever a gentleman, he reached to help her remove it if she was warm. And he paused when his fingers brushed her bare skin. Her gown was a shimmering fabric woven with thread of silver, long sleeves covering her arms for warmth, the neckline high to preserve her chest heat. But her back was bare, the gown tailored to reveal her completed marque, displayed.
He looked at her, she met his gaze. A silent conversation, completely understood.
He stepped closer to her, his fingertips tracing the line of the stem down her spine and she met his gaze fearlessly, her brows contracting as she asked quietly, “How many ways could this have ended?”
“So many.”
He saw them all for a moment, the possibilities that had branched out around them, changing with each choice: a Dahlia queen crowned in gold and by her king’s side, a duchesse on Roland’s arm, a spurned lover turned twisted and angry to become an enemy like unto the Shahrizai woman, a Night Court Second raised to Dowayne in her time to lead her House, a private courtesan with her own salon as the jewel of the city. So many possibilities and potentials.
“And yet here we are,” she said softly.
“So we are.” His eyes flicked across her face as his hand withdrew from her bared marque. “You have done well for yourself, little Dahlia.”
She didn’t let him pull back, shifting her body a half step closer to his as she asked, “Did you ever think this was where we would be? When you met me for the first time in Jocaste’s office, even when Rosanna wrote to you about me for the first time, did you ever think…?”
A wry smile twisted his lips. “No. I underestimated you. I judged too quickly.” He had always been a proud man, born to power and trained from birth how to wield it. The noble title gave him status and privilege, those that were not a part of the titled elite were to remain beneath them and be governed by those directly descended and chosen by the great Companions of Blessed Elua. There would be no interlopers suffered within the hallowed sanctity of the nobility. Until she had risen from nothing and become someone that could not be ignored, someone from whom they could not look away. And that was what forced him to admit. “However, now that this is where you are, it does suit you. You have proven yourself well and I am sure you will continue to do so.”
“Roland…”
She looked up at him and heard the distance in his voice. Even with her marque bared, even with the possibility of assignations again, he was maintaining distance. She would respect his decision. So, she worked his ring off of her finger. She had been wearing it—he had seen her wearing it—on the middle finger of her left hand, right next to the swan ring that the king had given her.
Now, she held it up to him, offering it to him back.
His hand covered hers, stopping her from giving it away as he breathed in the vulnerability and therefore the power of this moment before murmuring, “Keep it. It was a gift, and will remain a token of my affection so long as you choose to wear it.”
She let him push her hand gently back, watching him before saying gently, “….thank you.”
She slid the ring back onto her finger, and he turned the conversation away from the danger of feelings as he inquired lightly, “What are your plans for the Longest Night? Surely your attendance is highly prized.”
Odilia smiled. “I am still the Second of Dahlia House. I will attend the Cereus Masque, I must. And you?”
“I am expected here in the palace.”
“Naturally.” He was made for courtly settings, it was where he thrived. The intrigue and the thrill and the chance to remind everyone of his power? She understood that well.
She understood him well. So she reached into the cuff of her tailored sleeve. “Roland, I have a gift for you.”
From the place she had tucked it within her sleeve, she withdrew a medallion on a bronze ribbon. Struck into the gold medallion was a dahlia flower. On the back was engraved the words of the House: Upright and Unbending. A token, given to treasured patrons.
She offered it to him, the sunlight glinting on the medallion as it spun lazily from the ribbon. He reached slowly to take it. It was not the first token he had received, Jocaste had given him one once and he had had a Cereus token given to him once upon a time as a young man, but this was different. There was a weight to this moment, this offering, and an intimacy to this that he hadn’t shared with the other Servants of Naamah that had given them before.
His fingers caught the medallion, his thumb brushing the stamped petals, and she said lowly, “I have given very few of these.”
He looked into her eyes and caught her other hand in his, his thumb brushing the ring on her finger. “I have given very few of these.”
She nodded, understanding. He nodded, agreeing. And he tucked her dahlia token into the neck of his doublet, keeping it safe as he looked down at her, finding one last moment of honesty to give her. “I do wish you every happiness, Odilia. You are good for him and, if you let him, he will be good for you. There is a true love between you, I respect that deeply. My Juliette and I had a love like that. It will give you many, many years of joy.”
Lifting up onto her toes, she cupped his face with her free hand and kissed him.
When they parted, he let out a little exhale, grip tightening on her hand for a moment as his other hand lifted to brush his forefinger across the curve of her bottom lip, whispering, “Oh, little Dahlia. It is a kind of love, I am man enough to know it. Just as I know the young king will give you more happiness than I ever could.”
“Perhaps,” she said, head high, “but you give me things that he cannot, too.”
“Perhaps. There is time to see.”
“There is nothing but time.”