Chapter Text
Charles had once had a wet nurse who, by the time he was fully ablactated and eased into regular food, was promoted to full-time nursemaid. It'd been only natural, since, at that point, Charles had already grown terribly attached. He’d loved her a great deal, and regarded her as more of a parent than both his own genteel and distant mother, and his airheaded, negligent father.
One day, when Charles was about eight, he had a frightening nightmare, of horrible monsters that ate children's eyes for afternoon snacks. He could swear his own still stung with the phantom pain of having them plucked out like ripe grapes. He roamed the castle corridors in his linen nightgown, searching for his nursemaid so she could coax him back to a peaceful slumber. The mere thought of burying his head in her bosom and wrapping his arms around her thick waist made something unclench in him, a clarity of mind only she could bring.
His bare feet made no sound coming into contact with the runner rugs. Charles knew by heart the way to her room, as he had crossed this distance many times in the past, but, as he made his mousy entrance, he found the room empty and cold. The sheets were still done and candle, unlit, which was odd given the lateness of the hour.
Charles was more successful on his second guess, when he headed for the kitchen and saw his nursemaid with another servant sharing a bottle of an amber liquid. Neither noticed they were no longer alone, talking in uncharacteristic slurred tones.
“—sorry for the little fellow,” the other servant was saying. “Can't be easy, with those parents.”
“You, sorry?” asked Charles’ nursemaid with a snort.
“You hafta admit. It’s a little pitiful.”
“Spoilt brat, is what he is,” the nursemaid said. “Always whining, beggin’ for attention. Still wets the bed and sucks on his thumb, can you believe?
“Heavens. For real?” asked the unknown woman, and Charles’ nursemaid nodded. “I don't know how you deal with it, Sybil.”
“Neither do I, neither do I. My youngest was weaned off those pesky behaviors by the time he was half Charles’ age.”
They were talking about him, Charles realized.
“I bet by the time he makes it to adulthood he’ll still be a snot-nosed good-for-nuthin’, wetting the bed and all.”
Both women laughed heartily.
“Then again, like father, like son.”
“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree at all.”
“What a sorry, neutered excuse for a man. No wonder the Lady only had a single wean.”
Not five minutes before, Charles had thought that he couldn't possibly feel worse than he'd had in the aftermath of his nightmare. The clawing fear, the ache of having his ocular globes ripped out and chewed, the trembling, cold sweat.
Sybil's words inexplicably hurt worse, a pain that came from nowhere and everywhere on his body, and Charles suddenly wondered what he was even lingering on the doorway for. Waiting for her to take it all back, say it was a tasteless joke? That did not seem to be the case; she had no idea he was there. This was who she really was, what she really thought of him, when she didn’t have to keep up appearances for the sake of a job.
Mommy, he mouthed, then wept silent tears, realizing he had regarded his nursemaid as his own, birth mother. It was only natural, he thought then, that she felt the same for Charles as his real mother did.
He ran back to the nursery, banging the door shut behind him as he finally let go of the tight grip he had on his voice. His sobs came out heartfelt and pained, tailed by a wet little sniffle.
“Chh-ls?” a high voice called out, sleepy.
“Oh no,” Charles whispered to himself. Clearing his throat, he said, as level as he could, “G–go back to sleep, Raven.”
“Chawls,” she repeated, more insistent.
She had some trouble with her ‘r’s still, guttural sounds coming out garbled.
Earlier that year, Raven's mother had died and Charles’ father brought the toddler into the castle to live with them. Before then, as Charles understood it, his father had kept mother and child in a house nearby, kept apart maybe at his wife's behest. She did not seem to like Raven very much, and even less so now that she moved in with the Xaviers.
That meant that Charles had to share his nursery with a baby and, worst of all, a girl, one who kept vying for his attention like a lost, stuttering puppy. Charles’ father even seemed to like her best, reading her bedtime stories and buying her small trinkets, while he only bothered with Charles to instill in him, through tiresome monologues, the importance of studying and dedicating oneself to scholarly pursuits.
The reminder of his unlovedness made Charles sob with renewed vigor, raising his hands to his face in order to cover his mouth. He ended up clawing at his cheeks instead, the scorching lines cut into his skin only faintly felt.
As if prompted by his despair, Raven began crying with such gusto that Charles was sure she rejoiced in the performance of her own suffering. She surrendered herself to the tears with abandon, sniffling, hiccuping, and howling in turns. It was so loud someone would surely come to check what all the ruckus was about; Charles walked towards the bed, still weeping, and picked up her small three-year-old body.
“S-shhh,” he choked out, crying himself. Though she was smaller, he was still a young boy, and he struggled to hold her up. “They’ll hear.”
“Who they? D-daddy? Ca-can daddy read me princess?” Changing tracks, she asked, “Wh-why crying?” in between hiccups, rubbing her snotty face on Charles’ shoulder.
Though she was still crying, she did not appear sad in the least.
“I stubbed my toe on the bed,” Charles explained.
“No-no, no—no cry, Chawls.”
She tried to wipe his tears with chubby, small fists, but ended up smacking him in the face instead. Charles shoved her hands off of him with a wet laugh, asking suddenly,
“Do you love me, Raven?”
She stared at him as if she hadn’t understood the question, then said, matter-of-factly, “Love you,” and went on a tangent about the moon, and leaves, and the ants in the floor.
His heart lurched to the top of his throat.
“What did you say?” he asked with some urgency. “Who do you love?”
“I love—” she paused, thought it over. Concluded, “Love me.”
It was an answer so unexpected that it took him a moment to fully comprehend. When he did, Charles let out a huff of laughter, relieved and disappointed all at once. “You know what, that’s fair.”
“I guess I should too. I mean. Love myself,” he reflected, then muttered, “If only so I don’t need anyone else’s regard.”
The words rang hollow and false in the still air of the nursery. Like some part of him was still playing coy, waiting to be proved wrong.
“But I love Chawls,” Raven repeated. He bounced her on his arms, holding her tighter against his chest. “Don’t cry. I protec’ you from bed.”
Up until then, Raven had been little more than a passing annoyance to a precocious eight-year-old who valued above all else the peace and quiet necessary to latch onto a book and only emerge hours later. She toddled around the castle, leaving mess and havoc in her wake, and the favorite subject of her attention was Charles. She’d run through the corridors, shouting her butchered version of his name, while he’d hide in a nook somewhere, concealed by thick velvet curtains, waiting for her voice to fade out of earshot.
This little creature, who could barely walk and barely speak and whose thoughts were rudimentary at best, might be the only being in the whole of existence who cared for him any.
“Then I protect you too,” Charles declared, in the solemn way of an oath. “And I’ll love you too.”
“Love you too,” she parroted.
“Yeah, I got—”
“Read me princess?” Raven asked in a meek, bashful voice. She fiddled with the lapels of his pajamas and ducked her head, even though she was far from shy. “Like daddy?”
“I see how it works, huh,” he said with some amusement, putting her down. “Self-interested little menace—”
“Princess! I-I wanna be princess Co-Co-delia! No! Princess—”
“—weaponizing my love,” Charles continued, digging through Raven’s shelves for the right story book.
There were dozens of them, all expensive volumes with beautifully rendered covers. As he grabbed one, Charles, for the first time, didn’t feel the bitterness that usually accompanied the acknowledgement of how much their father favored her over him.
“—Aemilia, she felt a pea over twenty mattress-esses,” she showed him four of her fingers to illustrate, “and she felt it. Twenty! And then De-demona—”
Oddly giddy, he laughed.
“Slow down! We can read them all, alright? Huh? How about that?”
She thought for a moment, little brow deeply furrowed, before she nodded in acquiescence, finding the proposal acceptable enough. She scooted over to make space for him on the bed, pressing close to the tapestry on the wall. He went to sit on the edge of the mattress but she shook her head.
“Here,” she indicated the space next to her, and he obediently laid down at her side.
Though he didn’t actually read all of the stories that night, neither of them minded in the least.
When Westchester was taken, Charles had expected to meet the same fate as his stepfather and brother. To die at the end of a sword, maybe face public execution. Male spouses were common enough, but it had never even occurred to him that he might one day become one, and the possibility of taking one for himself had only crossed his mind in passing.
Men of wealth, unless they had the predisposition and preference, tended to favor women, if only for the sole fact that they could bear them heirs. Male concubines were only ever chosen due to personal sentiment or a remarkable beauty. Charles, however, neither had the king's affection nor was particularly alluring, but it seemed that he and Shaw were of a different mind regarding the last one.
When the siege ended and the Xavier castle fell at last, Shaw demanded the royal family be rounded up.
Grimly aware of his impending death, Charles was only able to ask a servant to bring Raven a commoner's dress and tell his sister to pretend to be an ordinary servant while the king was still in the castle. With her noble birth, looks, and education, should Raven manage to escape, she could seek refuge in the estate of a friend of the family, live a good, happy life. It could all be hers, so long as she kept her head down through the worst of it and snook out of the castle when time was right.
Shaw examined Charles, Kurt, and Cain for long minutes. All three were kneeling in the middle of the hall where petitioning commoners came to plead their case and resolve their disputes. The Genoshan king sat on a high-backed chair atop the raised dais, regal and imposing as he stared at them down the bridge of his nose.
“Lord Xavier?” he asked, eyes on Kurt.
“N-no,” said Kurt, though he was making a visible effort to keep his voice steady. “I'm Sir Marko.”
A smaller knight, who'd married the dowager archduchess before her passing. Then, he was only too happy to take advantage of the fact that he had gotten control of the archduchy until Charles came of age, spending recklessly and throwing his weight around like nobody knew his king-for-a-day act had a ticking clock attached to it.
Charles had turned twenty-five only a little over a month ago. He hadn’t even hosted the ball to celebrate his coming of age yet. Raven had been so excited, overseeing the preparations…
“You?” he asked Cain next.
“That's my son,” Kurt said in place of Cain, who looked as if he might shit his breeches.
Charles kept his gaze resolute and steady as King Shaw turned on him last.
“And who might you be?” he breathed, tone entirely different. “Surely…?”
His gaze ran up and down Charles’ kneeling body as if swallowing up the inches. The vulnerability it put him in made Charles sick to his stomach, but Raven was safe, so he cared not for whatever sadistic instincts he'd just awoken in this monster.
“What a lovely surprise. Has anyone ever told you you are quite remarkable?”
Charles’ face twitched at the unexpectedness of the words. He failed to see what was so remarkable about him then, kneeling and defeated at the heel of Shaw's makeshift throne, but he subjected himself to the strange admiration like a pliant butterfly with its wings pinned down.
“I appreciate Your Highness’ kindness,” he said diplomatically.
“Not kindness. You, my boy, are the only thing in this godsfordsaken country worth looking at so far.”
Charles frowned, thinking that the king couldn’t possibly mean what Charles thought he meant.
“I—”
“If Your Highness wishes!” Kurt began, masculine, booming voice echoing. “I could be your viceroy in Westchester, acting as your representative and, and upholding Genosha's interests in the province. I can—”
“Tell me, what is your name?” Shaw asked, still looking at Charles with a keen interest.
“Charles Xavier.”
“Do you happen to be wedded, Charles?”
After blinking once, Charles said, careful, “I haven’t had the good fortune, my liege.”
“Good, good.” He clapped his hands once in satisfaction. “That is indeed good to hear.”
“Sending, uh, missives—”
“And do you—” began Shaw.
“—and keeping Your Lordship posted of the goings on—”
Shaw's head swiveled to face Kurt in an unnatural manner, a malicious owl.
“Would you,” he roared, raising his voice by degrees, “kindly shut up?”
“The fuck do you care for Charles?!” Kurt screamed, spittle visibly flying from his mouth. “Charles?! He’s weak. Useless! I can—”
Shaw’s smile was a thin knife. “I have no use for sniveling cowards, and plenty of Genoshan men to run this blasted archduchy.”
“Who are you calling—!”
King Shaw sighed, reclining back against the seat of Charles’ chair.
“For pity’s sake, you’ve worn me out,” he said, then called, “Azazel,” motioning briskly with his hand.
A tall, black-haired knight stepped away from the shadows, unsheathing a serpentine sword strapped to his waist. He grabbed Kurt by the hair and pulled his head back, cutting his throat in a single slice. Kurt’s yell fell into a wet gurgle in the end, almost completely swallowed up by the sound of Cain’s horrified scream.
“The piglet as well,” Shaw said, bored.
“I didn-ghm.”
When Cain collapsed with a heavy thud by Charles’ side, he was fighting with his whole willpower to keep from shivering in fright. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, just left of the king's face, teeth gritted so hard his jaw throbbed.
“Now where were we?”
Shaw continued to talk in his silky, ingratiating cadence, but Charles could hardly hear a word spoken. His ears buzzed so loud it was as if a swarm of bees had taken up residence inside his skull. The cloying, iron stink of blood permeated his nostrils, and the more he thought of it, the fouler it became, until he had to seal his lips forcibly shut to hold back vomit. It rose in his throat regardless, and Charles swallowed it back down, vinegary and revolting.
“—arles? Charles?”
Someone slapped him upside the head none too gently, and Charles, off-kilter as he was, suffered the blow like baby teeth knocked loose. He fell to his hands and knees, catching himself just in time to avoid hitting his forehead on the floor.
When Charles lifted his head to stare at Shaw, the king was looking at something behind him with an indulgent smile.
“Tsk tsk. Too hard, Azazel.”
“I underestimated my strength. Begging Your Highness’ forgiveness.”
“No harm done.”
Charles wanted to laugh hysterically and protest that harm had been done, and to him, but speech was beyond him, winded and struggling to get back up on his knees.
“As I was saying, there's nothing to fear. You will be safe with me.” Charles’ gaze involuntarily fell on the slumped over forms of his stepfamily. “Oh please. They held no affection in their hearts for you; why should you mourn their deaths? By my side you'll have more riches than you could've possibly imagined, and none of the stress and responsibility.”
Shaw shot him a winning smile.
“I take very good care of what's mine.”
Though Charles knew what Shaw meant, he still asked dumbly for clarification.
“I—What's—?”
“My fourth spouse.” Of their own accord, Charles’ eyes widened in shock. “But don't worry, there's plenty to go around! They are all very welcoming as well. There's even a man to keep you company.”
The side door creaked open, preventing Charles from having to respond. Another knight stepped into the room, saying, “The servants Your Highness has requested.”
“Bring them in,” said King Shaw.
The knight walked in properly, followed by a queue of the castle's servants. Charles’ blood went cold inside his veins, and his eyes scanned the servants as they crossed the threshold. Searched desperately for Raven’s blond curls, her heart-shaped face, a porcelain doll beauty that had roused a fierce protectiveness in him ever since he had first held her against his chest and called her sister.
One of the last, she walked into the hall, still in the grayish-brown dress and apron that disguised her as a simple servant. The knight that had led the procession made all of them stand side by side, a group about a hundred strong.
“That is all of them, my king,” said the stone-faced knight.
“Did they give you any trouble?” asked the king.
“Just a gardener, Your Grace. Dealt with.”
Shaw nodded approvingly.
“Impeccable work as always. Now, let me see what you’ve rounded up.”
Shaw moved between the three rows of servants, humming and clucking, making thoughtful or dismissive noises as he examined each and every one.
He paused in front of Kitty, a teenage girl whose father was the chief guard of the castle. She couldn't have been older than fifteen.
The girl shook where she stood, eyes fluttering and jaw working as he examined her. Shaw lingered for a beat and then moved away, and Kitty slumped back against her father's side, who rubbed at her forearm in a subtle comfort.
Shaw continued to make his way around the hall, looking at the servants standing at attention. At times he lingered, at times he barely spared them a glance. He moved closer and closer to where Raven was standing, and Charles could nary draw breath.
When Shaw paused in front of her, giving her a look that was longer and more attentive than any other so far, a dozen scenarios ran through his head. He’d hurt her. He’d force her to do as he wished and have her beat if she did not meet his expectations. Would she be the fifth spouse?
Charles could not share a husband with his sister. More than that, he could not allow her to be subjected to this man. He would do anything to prevent it, bleed out the husk of the earth itself so she could use it as shelter.
“Show me your teeth, darling.”
Raven hesitated for a minute, eyes flitting over to Charles where he laid, beaten down and frightened.
“Say ‘ah’,” King Shaw prompted.
She tremulously parted her lips, the king coaxing her, “Wider,” and her eyes glistening with humiliated tears, visible even from afar. Charles’ heart broke again and again, twisting itself inside him, pounding furiously against clenched teeth.
“Quite stunning, you are. Maybe I've been unfair to the fine archduchy of Westchester,” he laughed to himself. “Crushed the last of the Krakoan resistance. Found myself a husband and a whore. Quite the profitable conquest.”
Whore. No, Charles thought, he cannot—”
“What do you say, my dear, of—”
Unbidden, Charles yelled, voice rough with gravel, “Not her!”
Silence stretched over the echoing hall.
“Oh?”
Everyone's eyes had turned to him, waiting to see what he’d do next.
Though he’d blurted out his protest out of a protective, animal instinct, and though he knew he should have tried to convince this royal fly with honey rather than vinegar, what was done was done. He could only try to salvage this.
“My king, I apologize for the intrusion. Your Highness has my word that it will not happen twice.”
Shaw’s face, which had gone eerily still, relaxed in increments.
“See that it does not,” he conceded in a magnanimous tone.
Charles continued, “It is just that she…” he glanced at his sister, “she was Lady Xavier’s handmaiden. Mother favored her greatly. Any sort of—p-position beneath her station feels like a disrespect to my late mother.”
“I am the king of the greatest empire this world’s ever seen. A commoner, a servant, does not lower herself by sharing my bed.”
Shaw seemed to dare him to argue otherwise.
“Of course not. Anyone would be greatly honored to be given a parcel of my king’s attention. It is merely that Mother hoped she would marry one day. Chaste.”
It was a gamble on his part, since Shaw could deny his request just as easily as he could decide to simply marry them both. Charles was betting that he, like most of the other royals and noblemen he’d met, thought it below themselves to marry a servant. A commoner was not unheard of—bankers, artists, military officers, entrepreneurs, doctors, lawyers, academics, bureaucrats; all of those, yes—but a servant had never been wedded to any royal family, at least to Charles’ knowledge.
Shaw tilted his head to the side curiously.
“Such a filial son. Was my fiancé close to his mother?”
“A great deal, Your Highness,” lied Charles.
“How could I ever deny you anything, when it comes wrapped in such a sweet request?”
Charles looked over to the crowd of a hundred servants standing next to Raven where they all had been subjected to the king’s appraisal. He suddenly realized that he knew little of them, wouldn’t be able to tell the names of almost half of them. Did any of them hold a grudge against the young lord of Westchester or his sister?
To confess the truth about Raven’s real identity offered little in the way of leverage; Charles couldn’t imagine what anyone would get in exchange for volunteering that information. Much less could see Shaw being honorable enough to reward a foreign kingdom’s servant who’d soon be left behind in a conquered province, never to be seen again. The king did not seem like the sort of man to do anything unless it benefited him.
But that was how Charles saw things. The only thing that mattered was how the servants saw it, whether one of them, even a single one was enough, figured they’d garner some favor with their new overlord by betraying their former employers.
He waited with bated breath for anyone to step forward and ruin the ruse, but the hall remained silent, filled only with the sound of countless people drawing breath and the humming of the tension in the air.
“A handmaiden, did you say?” Shaw asked, to which Charles nodded, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Any good?”
“My mother boasted the prettiest hair in all of Krakoa. Raven is very skilled in hairdressing.”
After the words left his lips, he cursed himself. He was off his game entirely. With Raven’s name it became all the easier to unearth the secret of her identity. Poor calculation on his part. Nevermind that, though.
He could still find a way to sneak her out of the Genoshan palace once he was the king’s spouse. It might even be better this way, since, for all that Genosha was foreign land, at least there Charles would have some control over the situation. Here, Raven would be left to her own devices and a recently instated government, the kingdom crawling with military.
In Genosha, he’d gather resources, set Raven up with plenty of money, a horse, a bag of provisions, maybe a mercenary paid to get her to a destination of Charles’ choosing. He wouldn’t say anything to her as of yet, though; he knew how impulsive his little sister could be. She’d want to run now, or worse, take him with her—a pipe dream. If she were to have any hope of escaping, Charles, with all his notoriety, could be nowhere near.
She’d be more convincing in her pretense if she were to enter this blind, rather than play two parts at once, that of the servant (and not a lady), and that of the innocent servant (who had no plans of running away). Leave it to Charles to concern himself with the minutiae.
“My queen happens to be in need of one,” Shaw said, his lopsided smile charming but his eyes flinty.
And so were both siblings’ fates sealed.
Shaw's valet led Charles to his quarters, which were located in the east wing of the palace, if the servant's posh, overly formal narration was to be believed. Charles had always had a terrible sense of geographic orientation, so he chose to take him at his word.
The valet opened the double doors that led to Charles’ quarters with fanfare, bowing as Charles walked in. He showed Charles the antechamber, needlessly ostentatious; the room, large and befitting the royalty he was to become; and the courtyard proper. Charles appreciated the last one the best, an unroofed area bordered by trimmed, flowering bushes. It allowed him to step outside in a sense, drag in lungfuls of fresh air even if he was still surrounded by the walls of his enclosure. He wondered where his sister was, if the other servants were welcoming, if her room had a window to the outside world that could offer her some respite as well.
The tasteless display of wealth in his quarters was disconcerting to Charles, who'd grown up in a more austere castle. It almost did not seem real, like a painting meant to depict the lives of the gods. The fact that he was standing there, surrounded by gilded ornaments, somehow still alive, soon to be wedded, felt like something that was happening outside of his body, to someone else.
“Does my lord wish for anything else?” the valet inquired.
Charles startled, lost in his own thoughts. He thought for a moment and asked,
“Would it be possible for me to see the library?”
His request was driven partly by his habit of visiting libraries—his favorite room wherever he went—and partly by the hope of catching a glimpse of Raven if she happened to be crossing the same hallways.
“The palace is far too large for you to roam unaccompanied. I can't take you there as I, unfortunately, must return to His Highness the King.”
Charles’ shoulders slumped, defeated.
“But,” the valet began, and Charles looked up again with a flicker of hope in expectant eyes, “Lady Angel might be amenable. I could let her know you want to be shown the library. She'd be most pleased to come to your courtyard and walk you there. Though most likely with some… tangents and detours.”
The valet smiled conspiratorially, and then, with an air of one imparting great knowledge, said, “She's the palace chatelaine, no one could better show you around.”
While lunch had still been undergoing preparations, Angel had dug her nails like talons on Charles’ forearm, insisting that they ought to get acquainted. She managed to show Charles a couple of rooms before he begged off the viewing, claiming exhaustion and a need to wash off the dust and grime from the road. He'd hoped he'd been done with her for the time being.
Now that the valet had suggested, however, Charles couldn't refuse, lest it get back to her that he was avoiding her. It would be a sure way to sow discord and draw negative attention to himself on his very first day. That didn't mean that he was happy about it, though, unwilling as he was to play whatever game she had been hellbent on playing earlier. He had no patience for the mutual manipulation that went on in a conversation such as that, one of the many things that had made him a poor archduke. Pleasantries disguising the attempt to dig up some weakness, discover some leverage. Charles could never really stomach the maneuvers required in the world of politics, finding them duplicitous, tiring, and mean-spirited.
The valet departed with a respectful bow and a promise to warn Lady Angel before he returned to his duties. Charles began to unpack some of his possessions, and his mind couldn't help but return to the subject of Raven's escape.
He knew it was far too soon to have a fully fleshed out plan. While he wished to do everything at once after so long playing with conjectures and hypotheses during the carriage journey, he knew next to nothing of the palace. He didn't know any soldiers or guards who would agree to the proposal of leading Raven to safety for a sum of money, nor had he worked out a way to gather the funds. Was Shaw the type to court his fiancés with gifts, jewelry and the like? If not, could Charles separate the ornaments from the furniture? That didn't sound practical, sending Raven off with a table leg with gold plating. Too large, showy, and potentially dangerous. If she was caught, no matter if by the king's men or any border soldier, they would accuse her of theft and hang her in the gallows.
Could Charles steal from the king or even one of the spouses? Especially the women; if Raven, an archduke's daughter, had possessed an infinitude of jewelry made from precious stones and gems, the wives of a king ought to own an even more impressive collection.
He could sneak into one of their rooms or, even, if he were invited, pilfer something from whatever piece of furniture—dressing table, chest, armoire—held their valuables.
Before Charles was done unpacking, there came a soft rap at his door, followed by a female voice saying, “Charles? It is Angel.”
“One second!” Charles called out.
Though the valet had offered to designate a servant to attend to his personal needs before he chose one for himself, Charles denied the offer. He'd chosen not to bring his old valet from Westchester when Shaw had suggested it, as Ignatius was elderly and had a life and family he'd be leaving behind. It was bad enough that Charles and Raven were being forcibly upended and thrust into a hostile kingdom. And anyone else simply would not do, especially not a Genoshan servant, who would most certainly work as an informant for the king and ruin Charles’ plans for Raven's freedom.
He finished tidying up what he'd already unpacked and left the rest in their cases. Charles opened the door to see Angel smiling at him, still in the same dress she'd worn for lunch, alluring and mysterious with her heavy-lidded eyes.
“My lord,” she greeted.
“My lady, what a pleasure. I thank you for finding the time to accompany me. We had to cut our last walk short.”
“A pity,” she said.
“Indeed.”
They smiled gracious, unfeeling smiles at each other. He extended his arm to her and she grasped him at the crook of his elbow.
“This way,” she said, and pulled him along, heading to the left.
She pointed out a sitting room, a salon, and a few galleries hidden behind the doors, none of which she opened, only announcing their names as they walked past.
As if reading his mind, she said, “I'd offer to acquaint you with the palace, but it seems you’ve little leisure for such pleasantries.” While Charles was still at a loss as to how to respond, she continued, “Some gentlemen always seem to be in haste.”
Charles halted in his step, Angel, connected to him by the arm, stopping with him. He stepped away and stared at her for a long moment, calculating his next words.
He’d been hoping Angel would be willing to leave it be, but, if she was intent on lingering on their past interaction, it would be best to clear the air and avoid drawing unneeded attention or making himself enemies.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, “but have I offended you in any way? I swear on my honor that my earlier refusal can be traced back to exhaustion—a need to freshen up after many weeks on the road. There was no ill intent, and I would hate for it to hang between us.”
Angel was so still that, if not for the way her bosom inflated and deflated with her breathing, and for her blinking eyes, Charles would think time had slowed to a stop.
With a lowering of her face, stillness melted into soft laughter, and movement resumed.
“I am the one who should apologize, Lord Charles. I've been terribly unfair.” She offered her arm to Charles again and he took it. “You are a perfectly courteous gentleman. I was projecting my own grievances.”
A sigh.
Though he felt no inkling of an interest, the polite thing was to pry obligingly, “Your grievances?”
Angel looked satisfied with the attention.
“I've been rebuked time and again by the other spouses. I built up this… fanciful idea that you would be a close friend where they were hostile towards me, each in their own way. So I took it hard when you rejected me.”
“I didn't—”
“I know, I know. I mean it as it seemed then.”
“For what it's worth, I would be delighted to be your friend,” he said, praying that it wouldn’t come to that and that no gestures of genuine friendship would be expected of him.
Hopefully, his offer would remain the empty platitude it was meant as.
“Really?” Angel intoned, sounding a little skeptical.
“Really. You seem like a lovely woman, and we both are at a shortage of friends.”
With a little laugh, she said, “That we are.”
Charles tried to keep on walking, but she held him back, nodding at the closest door.
“We're here.”
She tapped him gently in the shoulder to get him to move away from the doorway, as he was standing at the entrance, frozen in wonderment.
The library spanned two floors, huge rolling staircases leading up to the taller shelves. The windows were large and let in a great deal of sunlight, curtains pulled aside. The view from the outside was lovely, a green field rimmed by sloping hills, but it was not what Charles was riveted by, his gaze riveted on the finely crafted bookcases, the various tables for reading and researching, the large map taking over one corner of the room, the miniature model of their star system right next to it.
“There must be… thousands of books in here.”
“Give or take a few,” Angel conceded, amused.
“How did he…”
Charles was still flabbergasted, open-mouthedly staring at the oasis of knowledge.
“Come into all of this? Some are his, inherited, bought. Some were borrowed and never returned. Most are conquered. Sooner or later you'll probably see some familiar faces on these shelves.”
Charles looked away from the shelves and back at her, mood soured by the reminder. The pillaging of his home.
Weren't he and his sister just another pair of items from the loot?
“I'll be glad to see them.”
Angel sat down on one of the chairs, arranging her skirts around her. She stared out of the window placidly, seeming to find no fault in her husband's actions.
Charles walked towards the nearest table and skimmed over the page of an open book resting on top. It seemed to be one of those manuals of etiquette for young ladies, the likes of which Raven knew from cover to cover but gleefully deviated from when it suited her.
“Yours?”
“No, I don't come here much.”
“Oh.” Charles wondered, “Can you read?”
“Of course I can,” Angel replied curtly.
Oh, he thought, how improper of me.
He hadn't meant anything by it, but of course. Given Angel's upbringing, which Shaw had disclosed earlier, as a poor merchant's niece she probably read and wrote poorly before marriage, if at all, and likely hadn't improved much afterwards.
Women were not usually as academically educated as men, not even well-born ladies like Raven. For all that Brian had adored her, he'd also raised her to be somebody's wife. Charles himself had never subscribed to those ideas and had tried to impress upon Raven the importance of studying, even if by herself or under his tutelage, if their father would not have her tutor further her education. But Raven was a wild, free spirit, jumping from one interest to the next, and always orbiting the arts. Maths, sciences, even the languages held little appeal to her. However, even in the arts she did not linger overlong, taking the time to learn an instrument or craft just enough so she'd be able to play, or paint, or sing a favored piece to her own standards. Then, she'd jump to the next endeavor before she could reach true greatness, becoming adequate in many crafts but an expert at none.
Trying to avert the awkwardness, he asked, “How come you aren't close to either of the other spouses?”
He was still walking around the expansive library when Angel replied,
“Queen Emma comes from a very different background. We don't find much middle ground. I also fear she is quite jealous of my seniority in the harem.”
Charles didn't mention his impression that Angel herself was jealous of Emma's hierarchical superiority.
He saw a volume on the nearest bookcase about a butterfly he'd learned about at the Academy, a delightful example of evolution. He giddily plucked it from the shelf and opened the book on a table, watching tiny script and illustration filling a random page.
“Of course, she's also quite concerned about her lack of a male child. My Sebastian, as virile as he is, is not as young, and he needs an heir. Her fear, and that of her family out south, is that Emma will be returned to them for failing to meet her marital duties.”
Charles looked up from his book, aghast.
“Is that… a possibility?”
“Very much so.”
Angel sounded oddly satisfied.
“What about Emma's girl? She has a child, right?”
“Indeed. Winnifred's fate would be decided in the accords between Genosha and Emma’s homeland. They would not be pleased, that I tell you.”
Who would, having their daughter returned like bad merchandise? At least, that was what Charles hoped they'd be discontented about.
“Wouldn't it be best to keep trying? Rather than start all over again, with another woman, I mean.”
“Finding a new queen is an option,” Angel conceded, sounding dismissive. “But he already has an existing male child. He could always appoint Nicki as the heir. It would be the most logical course of action, and Sebastian is nothing if not a pragmatist.”
There seemed to be little of what Angel spoke that was either logical or pragmatic, rather than a byproduct of her personal desires. Sebastian hadn't seemed overly impressed with the boy earlier, so Charles doubted Nicki would be becoming king any time soon.
And speaking of the king's discontent… The memory of a stern face, of high cheekbones, sunken in lower cheeks, and a sharp jaw niggled at Charles’ consciousness. Eyes like green blown glass, shifting blue and gray under the light, and bitingly ice cold. Charles saw a hint deep down, however, of the furnace that had forged them.
That was no defanged beast, Charles was sure, certainly not in the way Shaw had tried to pass him as.
Charles asked, “What about—” he remembered the name with clarity born of curiosity, but pretended otherwise, “the man. Erik, I think.”
“Erik?” Angel asked, sounding surprised at the mention. “He keeps to himself. Not interested in being my friend same way he's not interested in anything other than chopping thin air with a sword.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh darling, it's just Erik, nothing for you to concern yourself with.”
“How so?” Charles couldn't help but press. “He's a spouse too. I ought to get to know everyone, even if I don't befriend you all. Not everyone can be as charming as the present company.”
Angel exhaled softly, an almost-scoff.
“The king didn't address him during lunch,” said Charles, insisting.
His scientific mind and the blasted spirit of inquiry that made him an great scholar and an excellent troublemaker would not allow him to leave well enough alone.
“Are you scared, love? That it'll happen to you? Don't be, you are nothing like Erik. Shaw's learned his lesson, somewhat.”
She nodded to the whole of Charles, as if saying, case in point.
Charles said nothing, not knowing how to reply. Taking it as prompting, Angel elaborated.
She seemed to be the sort of woman who rejoiced in gossip, particularly self-aggrandizing gossip about herself, but was also content enough to engage in gossip about others.
“Sebastian… married him under the assumption that he was something he was not, I suppose you could say. Now he is frustrated that Erik did not change or reveal a hidden side that fit his desires.”
“And what is it that the king desires?”
Angel smiled knowingly. Charles figured she thought he was planning to garner the king's favor.
“A lover. Not a fighter.”
He bristled, some part of him offended that he was not viewed as a fighter. Emasculated.
It was not just the literal sense of the word; Angel seemed to mean that Erik, more than a soldier, was an untamable man, a man with a fighting spirit and an iron core. But what did that make Charles?
“Can't a person be both?”
Though, if he had to label himself, he'd call himself a scholar rather than a lover. Were ‘scholar’ and ‘fighter’ such incompatible, incongruous categories? Could there be no middle ground?
All his trainers’ admonishments at his fighting ineptitude came to mind, tinged with grim humor and bittersweetness. Charles even missed the adolescent days of humiliation, of being thrown on the mud and berated for his uselessness.
“Mayhap. But not in his case. Sebastian wants the thrill of breaking a wild horse, I'll give you that, of having a rabid mutt eat out of his hand. But dogs, horses, those are still domestic animals. He chose an actual wild beast and now resents it for its nature.”
A wolf, Charles thought, remembering the focused, calculating look in Erik's eyes.
“A scraggly hyena,” Angel said with far less admiration. “Sebastian was a fool for thinking he could change it, but an even bigger fool for choosing it in the first place.”
The image of a mangy, scrawny hyena was really too unfair to Erik, or at least to the impression Charles had had of him at a first glance. However, Charles let it slide in favor of addressing his surprise at Angel's criticism.
“Are you allowed to speak of the king in such a way?”
In Krakoa, royalty was not very tolerant of having their shortcomings aired out.
“He's our husband. Of course we can. We just don't let it reach his ears.”
She tilted her head to the side, an odd smile curving her full lips.
“Us spouses have to have each other's backs, don't you agree? We're family now.”
“Spouses in law,” Charles said, tongue-in-cheek.
“You could say that.”
After a pause, she sighed and said, “Well, I'll leave you be, so you can get acquainted with the library. I can see you looking at the books longingly. No, don't worry—I'm not offended. I'll be taking my leave, with hopes of seeing you soon.”
“Likewise, my lady.”
She got up from her chair and offered her hand daintily for him to bow over. When she left, closing the door behind her, he banished all thoughts of sisters and wolf-hyenas and kings, if only for a few moments, and took refuge in the familiar comfort of a book.