Chapter XI. Kiss and Tell
XI
KISS AND TELL
“‘YOU’RE UPSET,’ REYNE said.
“‘I’m not upset,’ Dior replied.
“‘You’re pacing.’
“‘I like to pace.’
“‘What are you looking for?’
“‘My fucking cigarelles.’
“‘Dior, you’ve got one in your mouth.’
“‘… Oh.’
“The Grail slumped on the edge of her bed, dragging fiercely on the aforementioned smoke. She was in a state of half undress—a fact I mention only to point out that my moth was once again hidden in the jackets and shirts and britches strewn across her cabin floor.”
“And the Princess á Maergenn?” Jean-Francois inquired.
“She was not on the floor with me, no.”
“I was inquiring about her state of undress, Mlle Castia.”
The Liathe sighed. “More than Dior.”
The historian wiggled his eyebrows. “Scandalous.”
“We were less than a week from Augustin now, Dawnseeker speeding like an arrow across the Gulf of Antoine. Preparations were underway among Dior’s Unbound, drills run constantly upon the decks.
We’d no word of the capital, no knowing what state it might be in when we arrived.
Maryn counseled that God would set the steerage of our course, that we must hold true to our faith.
But she still seemed terribly frail, and the thirst had gripped us both deeply by then, weakening us all the more.
Summer was spent, autumn’s chill begun, and if it came to bloodshed when we landed, with only a single duskdancer and a couple hundred former thralls to fight with us, I’d no idea how battle might fare.
“Dior was obviously afeared also, our training redoubled. But though her efforts were tireless, we’d made little progress of late.
The Grail’s mind was filled with worries of what might come, of the losses she might suffer against the Forever King.
She was not afraid for herself—in fact, she seemed eager to face Fabién.
But she feared for those under her command.
And so she’d accepted invitation from her paramour to spend some much-needed time in her cabin, hoping to relieve some obvious tensions.
“That the Princess was besotted with the Grail was in no dispute. But despite the danger on their horizon, there was still a threshold Reyne would not allow Dior to cross. They’d reached that limit now, the Grail’s frustration plain as she hissed smoke through clenched teeth.
Reyne sat behind her, arms about Dior’s waist, pressing warm lips to her neck.
“‘Please don’t,’ Dior murmured.
“‘I thought you liked my kisses,’ Reyne whispered, nuzzling her ear.
“‘I do like them. But if you’re going to drag me off the stove before I whistle, it’d be easier if you’d not set me boiling at all.’
“Reyne pressed her brow against Dior’s back, sighing soft. ‘I’m sorry.’
“‘You’ve nothing to apologize for, Reyne.’
“‘I don’t know what else to say.’
“‘You don’t have to say anything. You’re not ready, and that’s that. And I’m trying. God and Martyrs and Mothermaid, Reyne á Maergenn, I am trying my best not to be a sow about it. Just … don’t ask me to turn bloody cartwheels either.’
“‘It’s hard for me, too. I want to truly, but…’
“The Grail cast her eyes skyward and scowled. ‘God is watching.’
“‘The Testaments name it a sin to share a bed before wedlock.’
“‘Well, the Testaments also name it sin for the deer to lie with the deer and the doe with the doe. So I s’pose we’re doubly fucked.’ The scowl deepened. ‘Or not, as it turns out.’
“Reyne chuckled, brow pressed against the smooth arc of Dior’s bare back.
And at the sound of her laughter, the Grail turned, looking upon her beloved.
Their eyes met, not so much falling into each other’s gaze as flying, despite the tension between them.
And smoothing back a braid of strawberry blond, Dior pressed her lips to Reyne’s.
“It was gentle to begin, soft as the sighs that slipped their lungs, melting together like frost in summer sun. I thought to turn my eyes away then, that this moment should be their own, but in truth I’d seldom seen such sweetness in so simple a thing.
It was not a kiss they shared in that moment, but a vow, wrought by gentle hand and flickering tongue.
A vow that despite any prohibition, their love remained. And would endure.
“The heat between them rose, lips pinked from pressure now, fingertips roaming bare skin like lost travelers in search of fire. But as they strayed too far, Reyne whispered protest and Dior groaned, flopping onto her back.
“‘Of all the girls in the empire I could’ve fallen for, I had to pick the one with morals.’
“‘… You still love me, then?’
“The Grail turned, smiling at her Princess across the tangled bed.
“‘As the boozehound loves her bottle.’
“Reyne scoffed. ‘That’s not very romantic.’
“‘What about … As the moons love the stars?’
“‘Oh God, that’s worse,’ Reyne laughed, tossing a pillow at Dior’s head. ‘If I was in the mood for bad poetry, I’d talk to Joaquin. He’s penned a book of it.’
“Dior levered herself up on her elbow, smiling down at her girl. ‘Well, how shall I measure my love for thee, O Princess of Lands High and Low? I’m no soothsinger to write you a sonnet, Majesty, nor pen a ballad sweet enough to pry you out of your royal britches.’
“‘I’m out of my britches, in case you didn’t notice.’
“‘I am aware.’
“Reyne reached up, caressing Dior’s cheek. ‘You don’t need to write me songs. Or call me Majesty. Just tell me you’re mine.’
“‘I’m yours. Until world’s end and dawn dies.’
“The Princess wrinkled her nose. ‘That wasn’t bad, actually.’
“‘Stole it from M. Marenn. So his poetry can’t be all that bad. But speaking of…’
“‘… Where are you going?’
“The Grail was out of the bed, scooting her britches up over her hips. ‘Talk to the capitaine. Check on my boys. They’ve been drilling hard the last few days.’
“Reyne sat up, wrapping the sheet about her. ‘It’s late, I’m sure they’re fine.’
“‘I’m sure they are, too. But we’re only a few days from Augustin, and fuck knows what’s waiting for us there. If I’m asking these men to fight an Endless Legion in my name, least I can do is take the time to share a smoke and wag the chin.’
“Reyne smiled. ‘I overheard a few of them talking yesterday. About how you carry yourself around them. How you know the hamlets they came from, the names of their wives and bairns. Those men love you, Dior Lachance. They’d die for you.’
“The Princess tucked an errant braid behind her ear.
“‘I would, too.’
“Dior tugged on her boots, stole a swift kiss.
“‘Not if I can fucking help it.’
“And slinging on her frockcoat, the Grail left the cabin.
“She nodded to two burly Unbound standing guard nearby, beards and hair braided for war, tabards chalked with her chalice and flame. The men fell into step behind her, marching down the narrow corridor in lockstep.
“‘You got any traproot, Jackson? I’m almost out.’
“‘Apologies, Holy Maid,’ one fellow replied. ‘Ye smoked my last yesterday.’
“‘I did? That was rather cuntish of me.’
“‘I thought the same,’ the second fellow smirked.
“Dior growled in faux outrage, punching the fellow’s arm. ‘Go to hell, Derrick.’
“‘Were you to lead me there, I’d surely follow.’
“With a soft scoff, Dior led the pair aft to the capitaine’s cabin. The hour was indeed late, but a soft glow could be seen beneath the door, soft voices within. Dior knocked once, leaving her Unbound on guard as she stepped inside.
“A quartet of figures awaited beyond, gathered around a wooden table scattered with nautical charts. The cabin was a homely place, well lived in, not a single book in sight. The walls were hung with maps and a portrait of a stern old woman who bore a striking resemblance to the man at the table’s head.
Elaina slept on a blanket in the corner, the hound softly wuffing as she chased cats in her sleep.
“Dior tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Aright, Capitaine?’
“Declan á Connell was not the sharpest knife aboard Dawnseeker, but what he lacked in intellect, he made up in size. He stood six and a half feet tall, dish-plate hands making the wheellock and cutlass he wore look like toys. His left hand was scarred by an ornate skull marked with the Ossian rune for D—the Draigann’s brand.
á Connell had served that monster a score of years; commanding this very ship when its name was Marauder.
And though he never spoke of that time, we sometimes heard him weeping in his sleep.
“‘I’m well, Holy Maid,’ he grunted. ‘And ye?’
“‘Still breathing.’ She turned to the others about the table, smiling at both in kind. ‘Mlle Phoebe. M. Marenn.’
“Phoebe kissed Dior’s cheek, drawing her into a warm embrace. Joaquin gifted the Grail his charmer’s smile, dipping his head.
“‘La demoiselle du Graal. How fares your quest?’
“‘The balls are still bright blue. Merci for asking, Joaquin.’
“‘Sorry to hear that.’ The lad slipped hands into pockets, rocking back on his heels. ‘If you need any pointers on the subtle arts, you know who to ask.’
“Phoebe scoffed, eyeing the lad up and down. ‘Ladies’ man, eh?’
“‘I was something of a favorite around Aveléne. At least, before Isla…’
“Joaquin’s voice faded then, a shadow come over him as he spoke the name of his fallen love.
We knew Dior hadn’t told him the whole truth about his lady’s betrayal, the fact Isla had seen the Blackheart, not him, as her Ever After.
He clearly still bled from his beloved’s loss, and yet, the shadow over Joaquin’s eyes was banished with a tip of his cap and a rake’s grin—false bravado having more use among this crew than grief.
“‘Well, a gentleman never kisses and tells.’ He grinned at the fleshwitch. ‘But I’ve known my share of fillies, Mlle á Dúnnsair. More than you, at least.’
“‘That a fact.’
“‘Well, I wager you’ve not known any.’
“Phoebe raised one brow, but Joaquin’s lifted even higher. ‘Oh, really?’
“Dior grinned, rising to her feet. ‘You surely are a quick one, M. Marenn.’