His Bride

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

M ila

As I do as I am told, I wonder what would happen if I were to tell on Lydia. He might know where I was, but I doubt he knows she called me a bitch.

I did end up with what I consider to be a very nice black dress. It has a certain sparkle in the fabric so I shimmer when I move. It clings to my body in what I am told are all of the right places. I think it transforms me. With my curves on display, I no longer look quite as young. I have also chosen to wear a very red lipstick as well as eyeshadow. It is too heavy and dramatic a look for the countryside, but it feels appropriate for this city.

“Look at you,” Arthur compliments me when I emerge from the bedroom. “You did well today, Mila. That is a lovely dress.”

“Thank you,” I smile, very pleased to have pleased him. I feel very sexy in this garment. I feel ten years older and endlessly more sophisticated. In this outfit, nobody can tell me anything. I don’t think I’ll ever take it off.

He puts shades on as he prepares to leave the house. They cover his eyes with a dark barrier that must block out the light that would otherwise hurt or harm. It is a pity, because I can no longer read his expression quite as well.

“I like that I am traveling with you,” I tell him as we get into a vehicle. Sleek, low-slung, with just two seats. There’s no room for a third-wheeling bodyguard with a fixation on my husband and an obvious dislike for me. I like that.

“That’s very sweet,” he says, smiling.

“I wish I could always travel with you, not Lydia. She’s rude to me.”

He glances over at me. “She will keep you safe,” he says. “Attitude aside, there are few I trust as much as her.”

Those words spark jealousy deep inside me. I don’t like the idea that he thinks highly of anybody else, especially Lydia, who is a woman. She might not be his mate, but she is obviously part of his life.

“You can wipe that sour look off your pretty face,” he says dryly. “She is not a threat to you in any way. She is not interested in men, least of all me.”

“Everybody is interested in you,” I say, entirely missing his meaning.

He chuckles. “That’s adorable. You’re already jealous.”

“Would you not be jealous if I were surrounded by men who all thought I was the most amazing creature on the planet?” I ask the question, and then immediately regret it. He probably would not care. He only met me yesterday, and he has to tolerate me, because the Artifice said so. Men aren’t jealous of women they have been compelled to take into their bed.

“I would kill any man who looked at you inappropriately,” he says smoothly.

That makes me laugh. “Well, there was a man who both looked and spoke to me inappropriately today…”

“ Was , being the operative word,” Arthur replies, sending the vehicle smoothly sliding along the streets.

I stare at him, wishing more than ever that I could see his eyes right now. Is he joking? Is he speaking metaphorically?

“What happened to him?”

“He was retired from existence two minutes after you left his store.”

A cold chill runs through me. “You had him killed?”

Arthur glances over at me again, the dark band of reflective glasses giving nothing away. “The penalty for interfering with my bride is death,” he says. “The city will not miss him.”

I feel rather guilty. The man was rude and callous to me, but I don’t think he deserved to be executed for it without so much as a trial. My husband is apparently able to have anybody killed. That’s a power one should not wield lightly.

“Do not be afraid of me, Mila,” he says. “People already know who you are. Keeping you safe means removing those who treat you with even the slightest disrespect.”

“Except Lydia,” I mutter under my breath.

He chuckles. “Do you want me to kill Lydia as an act of devotion to you, my bride?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Careful what you ask for,” he says. “And even more careful how you interact with the world.”

He’s suggesting that the man would still be alive if I had not gone into his store. But I did not know what the consequences of that action would be. I feel ever so guilty now.

We arrive at our destination, a beautiful building not far from our own home. This one has a delicacy and femininity about it. There are even representations of flowers in cut, angular glass surrounding the main door. It is the first indication I have seen that anybody in this city understands that nature exists.

Arthur parks the car and helps me out of it. I wonder if I will ever look at him the same way, now that I know what he is so casually capable of. I should have already known. I’ve seen his scars. It was silly to imagine that they were just on his body, and not on his soul.

He leads me inside, where we are greeted by exceptionally polite servants who presumably want to stay alive, and then escorted into a large and buzzing ballroom, where dozens are dancing and even more people are milling about in conversation. Music is being played by an extensive string band, and waiters move through the crowd delivering a banquet’s worth of food, one bite-sized snack at a time.

Our arrival does not go unnoticed. Wherever Arthur goes, the crowd first parts, and then collapses in on itself around us. Everybody wants to greet us, and I can barely remember any of their names or faces.

“Mila.” Arthur nudges me after dozens of introductions, each of which I have politely smiled through. “This is Emmaline Carpenter; she is the head of the Boston Women’s Society. If you are very fortunate, she will accept you into her ranks.”

Emmaline Carpenter is a woman older than my sister Maraline, but probably younger than my mother, or Arthur. I suppose she is probably mid-thirties. She has brilliant blonde hair curled in an ornate up-do that is covered in thin chains of light and diamond. Her makeup is exquisitely and delicately done. Her eyes are lined darkly with smoky shadow, her lips gleam ruby red. Her cheeks and nose are blended with just a light smattering of cosmetic freckling, and tiny bright diamonds have been placed across her brow. She is wearing a silk dress even more beautiful than the ones I saw at the dressmaker’s today. It is pale baby blue layered with lace detailing, cinched at the waist and flowing out into a broad skirt that makes people keep their distance unless they want to step on her hem.

She smiles at me, and I feel as though the sun is shining on me, even in the middle of the night.

“Emmaline, this is my bride, Mila Darken.”

He uses my first name with his last name, and I feel the want of the ceremony that would have made the transition from single woman to married one feel more real.

She looks me up and down, her eyes settling on my face, searching me deeply. This is not the casual glance or smile of a person meeting someone they don’t particularly care about. This is like being inspected by someone who you do not want to find you wanting.

“Such a young bride! The Artifice wants plenty of your progeny, doesn’t it, Arthur.” She lets out a laugh that contains enough charisma to make her comment seem more friendly and encouraging than judgmental.

I am horrified by the mention of babies, because it means of course that she knows about the sex—well, of course she knows about that. That is what brides are for, breeding and babies. It’s not a secret.

But it does make me feel as though everybody present is looking at me the way the crowds looked at the new prize heifer at the county fairs we used to attend. I am being evaluated in their eyes as a vessel for Arthur’s heirs, and nothing more.

“Don’t look so horrified,” Emmaline smiles. “I’m teasing Arthur, not you. You’re a perfect Angelish rose, aren’t you.”

“Thank you,” I say demurely. That’s the safest thing to say. Nobody can possibly take offense at being thanked nicely.

Arthur whisks me away to meet others at that point, which I am grateful for, because speaking to Emmaline feels like being examined cell by cell beneath a particularly elegant microscope. I am not prepared for this level of society. Of course my mother tried to ready her daughters for this, but there was a limit to what could be achieved in our area. This is not the same as the hunt ball, held in our stateroom.

“Why do they keep talking about our babies?” I murmur the question to him when we get a brief moment somewhat on our own.

“There is a theory that the matching is done by way of controlling future genetics. The Artifice does not operate the way men do, with a short-term view of the world. It knows it is building the world yet to come. Short-term pain is acceptable if it leads to long-term gain.”

We have been immediately overheard. People cluster around us, men desperate to be in Arthur’s orbit. They have a particular puppyish energy that makes me realize just how respected he is. I knew Archon-General was an important position, but Arthur is more than merely important. He is a legend among these men.

“In other words, the ends justify the means,” a lady says. She smiles as she says it, as if she knows she is putting a cat amongst the pigeons.

Again, I feel tension fizzling in the air. We did not talk about the Artifice much at home. It was not a subject of discussion, much less controversy.

The men scowl at the women they have brought, but the women seem unconcerned. A woman’s interaction with the Artifice is usually limited to whether she is selected or not, so maybe it is simply because the great authority is an irrelevance to these people. It used to seem like an irrelevance to me.

Emmaline takes me by the hand, drawing me away from Arthur’s side with a broad and knowing smile.

“Come with me, dear. The ladies socialize together. It gives our men the chance to spend time together and talk shop without having to pretend to be civilized.”

There is a smattering of laughter at her comment, which I take to be accurate.

The ladies’ lounge is a plush, ornate space. This venue is grand in many ways, but the area set aside for female conversation is especially beautiful. It is also popular. Emmaline leads me through the space, introducing me here, there, and everywhere. Everybody is nice to me because everybody has to be nice to her.

The women are wild, charming, and witty. Some of them are matched and married, but there are plenty of noble-born ladies who were never selected by the Artifice to become mothers, and have pursued their own interests. They are colorful, strident, exciting characters with much to say, all of it scandalous. I think any of these women could hold their own against that terrible sex shop purveyor who made me blush and tremble at his inappropriate words.

Unfortunately, a great many of them feel quite comfortable commenting on me as if I am not in the room.

Emmaline introduces me around. Everybody is passingly polite, with the exception of a duchess who clearly had designs on my husband for herself. I am beginning to understand that Arthur was very much the prize of New Boston society before my arrival.

“So this is who the Artifice chose for Arthur. Fascinating,” Duchess Bouquet says. She is a very beautiful woman whose dress shimmers with wonderful radiance. Maraline would love her, I think. They both have a tendency toward heavy makeup.

“She’s very young,” she continues, talking to nobody in particular and everybody at the same time. “Are you old enough to be married?”

“I am nineteen,” I say.

“Nineteen! Well, the Artifice must be well pleased with Arthur Darken indeed. No self-possessed girl in her twenties who knows her mind for him. No, he’s been given a little country lamb. I imagine he has enjoyed you greatly.”

The woman is trying to shame me, I think. She is making crude references to the bedroom, implying that I am some prize because of my youth and innocence. It is not a compliment. If anything, it dismisses who I am.

I look her dead in the eye, and I answer simply, “Yes, he has. And I he.”

A raucous laugh goes up around the room. Emmaline squeezes my hand and smiles at me warmly. “You are going to fit in very well here,” she says.

The conversation is more genuinely polite and welcoming from that point onward, though there are still some scandalous moments.

“Do you want to bear a baby?” One of them asks me the question. I consider it briefly, though not too deeply, because I know it’s not really an option. I will bear a baby eventually. Several, probably. It’s what I was put here to do.

“I don’t know,” I say, more confused by the question than anything.

“She’s just a child,” Emmaline says, apparently having reached the end of some invisible tether. “It’s a shameful match. Shouldn’t be allowed! I don’t see why the Artifice couldn’t wait to match her.”

The women do not hide their questioning of the Artifice the way the men do. There’s a ripple of agreement in the crowd. Quite scandalous, really.

“I, er, I thought you weren’t allowed to say that the Artifice could be wrong?” I ask the question with as much tact as I can muster.

Emmaline gives me a slow, catlike smile. Her magnetic personality makes it possible for her to say anything she likes and for it to be received well.

“The rules about never questioning the Artifice are for two groups of people—our husbands and the poor. We are well-to-do women, and women have always borne the true responsibility of society. The Artifice is… well, a distraction. You will learn that soon enough.”

I cannot believe what I am hearing. It’s blasphemy. It’s seditious. It’s dangerous talk—and I have to admit, it is rather thrilling to be around.

“Here,” the grand lady says casually. “Sniff this.”

She hands me a little powder pot. I assume she wants me to smell it and compliment it. Perhaps it is a perfume of some kind. I want very much to fit in here, so I do as I am told without a second thought. The second I inhale, I know I have made a mistake. I feel a fizzy tingling in my nose, and taste a slight metallic tang in my mouth. A moment later, it is like a bomb has gone off in my brain. There is light and there is joy. I feel better than I ever have. I feel better than I knew it was possible to feel. I feel like singing and dancing. I giggle a little, and then I laugh a lot. I laugh more and longer than I ever have in my life.

Arthur

The evening is progressing how these evenings tend to progress. There has been some brief mentioning of my marriage, but for the most part we are swapping the same war stories we have exchanged for years, while anticipating new ones.

Lance is holding court.

“These rebels need to be rooted out,” he says. “The ideology is starting to spread through the commoners, and once it takes hold there, nothing short of a massacre will stop it.”

I know him well enough to be aware of the fact that it has simply been a long time since he has had the excuse to kill anybody, and he is missing it. The smell of blood, the act of ultimate conquest in dealing death, becomes addictive to some.

Lance’s wounds are worse than most, which means his bloodlust is mixed with a very natural and understandable ongoing desire for revenge. We listen to him to indulge him.

A tap on my shoulder is a welcome distraction.

“I am sorry to interrupt, sir, but I believe your bride needs to go home.” Lydia slides up to me and murmurs the warning in a soft voice. She gives it in a very calm and restrained manner, but I know Lydia would never dare interrupt me while socializing if things had not become urgent.

I make my apologies and head to the ladies’ lounge, which is a much brighter and more cheerful place. Sometimes I wonder about the wisdom of splitting off into genders. If I want to sit in a dark room and have depressing alcohol-laced conversations with Lance, I can do that at home.

The snacks are better here too, sweeter and more pleasantly presented. Even with my shades on, I feel a certain sense of joy in the decor. I pick up some coconut ice and nibble on it as I walk in. I am sure Lydia is correct that my help is needed, but nothing too terrible can happen at a party like this one.

Women are louder than men, and the conversation layers over itself in so many directions it is hard to pick up any individual thread. It does not take me long to find Mila however, even among all the hubbub. This is because my wife is standing on top of a table singing what appears to be some kind of Angelish countryside song. The other women are egging her on by clapping their hands and attempting to sing along. The effect is not unlike an acoustic hall of untrained cats.

Emmaline is on the outskirts of the chaos, smiling at it all with the visage of someone who has successfully orchestrated an absolute mess.

“What is happening here?” I approach her first. I don’t love that my bride is on a table, it is vaguely dangerous, but I am a soldier and I have seen much more dangerous things unfold than this. I am surprised to see her being so outgoing. She seemed like a more demure type.

“She had a pinch too much of the good stuff,” Emmaline says. “I told her to take a sniff, but she inhaled with all her might.”

“And what is the good stuff?” I school my tone very carefully.

“Oh, it’s freshly imported from the East Coast. It’s very, very good. The girls and I have been enjoying it all week.”

She won’t say the word itself. That would make it all too real.

She means Soma. She means every woman in this room has partaken in the most illegal drug our society has, and that my innocent bride has also been encouraged to take it—assuming she even knew what it was.

“This is illegal,” I remind her.

She is unmoved.

“My bride is nineteen, and she is freshly arrived to New Boston. I wanted you to be a good example to her, not a corrupting force.”

“If you want to keep her innocent, keep her home. New Boston is no place for innocence, and well you know it, Archon-General.”

“I thought you might have some respect for me and my position,” I growl.

Emmaline smiles, undeterred. That’s the Soma. She might not be as high as the others, but she has clearly had enough to avoid feeling anything like fear. There is no point talking to her. There is no point engaging with anybody in this room. This is the biggest display of lawbreaking and social decay I have encountered in a long time.

I do not have time to deal with all of them. I am worried about my wife, who is now swaying so much she is about to fall off the table. This is all more dangerous than it looks on the surface. I should have been more wary from the beginning. Women are always more dangerous than they appear.

“ I’ve… had… the time of my liffffe… ” Mila is crooning. “ And I never felt this way before… ”

I scoop her up into my arms. She is light enough to carry, and holding her is easier than letting her run around. Her eyes are bright. Too bright. Her pupils are like saucers, and the speed at which she is talking is about twice as fast as anybody could ever hope to understand.

Yesterday, a sweet, innocent young woman stood before me, and today I hold in my arms a deflowered socialite absolutely out of her mind on the most illicit drug our society knows.

“We are leaving,” I tell Lydia, who has dutifully shadowed me to the edge of the female crowd, and now slips through it behind the pair of us.

“Oh, no,” Lydia deadpans. “What happened?”

“Emmaline slipped her some Soma,” I growl.

Fortunately there is always a back way out of these engagements. Mila will not be the only person who leaves this gathering worse for wear, and she will not be the only person who needs to depart unseen.

I carry her to the car, settling her into the passenger seat, which is about as easy as trying to put a wildcat into a wet sack. She doesn’t quite know where she is, or what is happening to her. I activate the exterior lock before I shut the door so she can’t open it while we’re moving. That solves one problem, but she’s still next to me as I attempt to drive away.

Almost instantly, her hands are all over me, pawing at me in a most unladylike manner.

“I want to fuck you,” she says.

“You’re under the influence of drugs, young lady. You are going to go to bed.”

Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re pointless. She won’t sleep tonight. She probably won’t sleep tomorrow. Right now her mind is as wide as the ocean, and her energy levels are as high as they have ever been. An unethical sort would consider this a prime opportunity to program her.

I have never been an ethical man, though I do tend to be an honorable one.

I know where I can take her. Somewhere nobody will bother us. Somewhere her boundless energy will not prove a problem.

“I didn’t think I would like it here because it’s all so different, but actually everybody is very nice,” she babbles as we drive out of the city. “I thought you would be boring, and then I thought you were terrible. But you’re okay. I like sex. Do you like sex?”

“Yes,” I answer, a slight smirk on my lips. This is very wrong, but it is also quite amusing.

“I didn’t know what it was. I never asked before. Maraline used to make references sometimes, but she’d never dare tell me. Now I know more than her. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what it is like, I bet.”

She tells me all of her thoughts about sex, and how good it feels, and how much she likes it all the way out of town. I have to admit it is a rather gratifying conversation. I know for a fact she would not dare say any of these things if she were to be in her normal frame of mind.

Finally, she realizes that the terrain has changed significantly.

“Where are we?”

“Outside the city,” I explain. “Come on. Get out of the car.”

It’s safe enough to let her roam out here. I have no doubt that I’ll be able to hunt her down, and Lydia and some of the guard have followed us out so there’s backup if somehow she proves to be faster than I anticipate.

My bride is absolutely unaware of how very well protected she is from everything, including herself. Of course, she is far too high to be aware of such things. I keep a surprisingly indulgent eye on her as she steps out of the vehicle with a rapturous expression.

“It’s a desert! It’s all dust and nothing, and it goes forever!” She runs off into the dunes. I let her go, knowing I can easily run her down if I need to, and knowing that it will be better for her to burn off some of the energy coursing through her right now.

It is a desert, though not a natural one. The sand here is not made from rock, but from broken-down cement and brick structures that once stood here, covering hundreds of miles. There are remnants of ruins here and there, particularly large buildings that still stoically resist the forces of weather and time. They stand against the horizon, bent and broken, but not yet gone.

My bride runs about in the soft sand, her glittering dress flowing in the wind. I can take my shades off here and simply watch her. There isn’t enough light to bother my eyes, but there is more than enough to make her look like a glowing, flitting beauty against a backdrop of decay. In this dead place, she is the epitome of life itself.

Finally, she returns to me, beaming with happiness. I am going to have to discipline her for this eventually, but for now, all I want to do is indulge this sweetness and openness. I can’t start to question my value judgments around Soma. That would be a step too far, but I can set it to the back of my mind for a bit.

“I found bits of old road, I think, over there,” she says, holding a chunk of asphalt in her hands as she collapses next to me, curling up against me like a semi-feral kitten proud of its insensate prey.

“This is what is left of the world as it was,” I start to explain. “New Boston was built after the war, absorbing all of the citizens from the cities on the East Coast. It began as a city of refugees, each with their own loyalties and leaders. The city almost fell into civil war after it was founded, but then the Artifice was raised to the position of the highest authority. Unlike any of the other leaders, it had no agenda but to make the decisions that would lead to the most happiness, stability, and safety for those who lived in New Boston.”

She is still listening. More than listening, in fact. She’s hanging on my every word. I decide to explain a little more. “As our city’s fortunes increased, others took notice and replaced their human governments with the Artifice. Over a period of several hundred years, we not only rebuilt society and civilization, but experienced levels of prosperity and peace unlike any in human history before. Today, over ten billion people live according to its edicts. All we have to do is follow the laws of the Artifice. And what does that mean?”

“No Soma?” Mila guesses correctly the first time.

“Precisely. No Soma.”

She leans in, her eyes gleaming conspiratorially. “It’s good, Arthur. It’s very good. You should try it.”

Sweet thing thinks I haven’t tried it. Every young person seems to think that their elders have never done anything whatsoever. I feel the age gap between us very keenly right now.

“It’s almost as good as your cock,” she murmurs in my ear, her lips making brief contact with my lobe.

Oh, she is going to test my resolve on this one. As lustful as she remains, I cannot do anything sexual with her in this state. It is hard enough to maintain self-control under normal circumstances. Now she is being explicitly erotic. Some part of my mind tells me that it’s not just the drug. She needs to be mated. She needs to be bred. The Artifice sent her to me in order to create progeny. The somewhat blunt conversations at the soiree were not wrong on that count.

“Please, Mr. Archon-General,” she breathes, her lips closing around my earlobe before she finishes her thought. “Please fuck me again. I’m not a virgin anymore. I’m yours to use.”

My cock is rock fucking hard.

“Stop it,” I warn her. “Or it won’t be your sweet pussy that is fucked. You have another hole yet to be used.”

“My mouth?”

“Your ass.”

She looks at me, shocked. A moment later, she laughs at the top of her lungs. “That’s silly. You can’t do that there. That’s not what it’s for!”

“I can assure you that you very much can do that there,” I tell her, smirking. She’s so innocent, even as she tries her best to be a femme fatale. “And I will show you, when these drugs wear off and you are entirely back in your body again. I want you to feel it. Every bit of it.”

“I think I would feel it now. I feel everything,” she says, breathing deeply. She lies back beside me, smiling up at the stars above us.

I realize quite suddenly that I have not enjoyed anybody’s company this much in a long time. There is a freshness and an innocence to my bride, along with her clear carnal hunger. She has a bright and ready mind, as well as a good temperament. She is not a simple little country girl the way I assumed her to be, or at least, that is not the entirety of what she is.

I missed her at the soiree, too. I am used to the separation of genders. It is traditional, but I noticed her absence as soon as she was swept off to that infernal women’s lounge.

Is this what love is? Is it becoming suddenly so attached to someone that the world seems brighter with them, and duller without them?

I look over my shoulder, out of habit more than anything. In the distance, Lydia is waiting, leaning against the hood of the surveillance vehicle that of course followed us out here. She is not for show, nor are the several other guards in and around the car. I have enemies in New Boston, plenty of them. My habit of erasing anybody who crosses me does not endear me to everybody, but I do not care, as life has taught me that leaving them alive is a far worse idea. I bear too many scars from those I showed mercy to make that mistake again.

“I didn’t know what to expect when I was told I had been matched to you,” Mila is saying. “But I think the Artifice must know what it is doing, if it brought me to you.” She lets out an adorable little yawn. In the distance, the sun is starting to rise. I have spent an entire night with her and not noticed the passing of time.

“I think it is time you went to bed,” I tell her. “It has been a long night for you.”

“It feels like it all passed in an instant!” She echoes my sentiment, getting to her feet and shaking herself. “I have sand in my dress. I’ll have sand in the bed before you know it. Sand goes everywhere, doesn’t it. Sort of like the Artifice. I’m very grateful to the Artifice, you know. Even though I took the Soma, I still like it. Do you think it’s possible to take Soma and stay faithful?”

“No,” I say. “Because breaking the rules means disrespecting the one who gave you those rules, and disrespecting the Artifice by funding the Soma trade, and therefore the rebels who oppose it…”

“Why are all the fun things forbidden?”

“Not all of them are,” I remind her.

“Oh, yes,” she grins broadly, catching my meaning. “I suppose there are still one or two pleasures left in this world.”

I lead her back to the car. Once we start driving, she is almost instantly asleep. I feel myself relaxing knowing that she is safe. The Soma has worn off, and I will ensure she never encounters any of it ever again. Soma is insidious that way. Once you try it, you are compelled to try more. I still remember my experimental phase, though it was over twenty years ago now.

Mila is still asleep by the time we get home. I pick her up and carry her upstairs, over the threshold of both the fortress, and our apartment inside it. She is a joyful weight in my arms. She feels like solid responsibility and like sweet innocence. She feels like someone I intend to protect for the rest of my life.

I have not been in love in such a long time, and never this deeply. The connection I feel to this young woman is intense. It is the work of the Artifice, I believe. The machine knows what is best for all of us, including me. This is a good reminder of why I do what I do, and how I became who I am.

I settle her onto the bed, but before I go back and remove her dress and get her ready for bed, I check in with Lydia. She sleeps when Mila does, and I can see she is tired. But we need to be clear that she is responsible for all threats to my bride.

“Mila had never seen Soma before,” I say as she comes to attention.

I would usually tell her to stand at ease. This time, I do not.

“Presumably not, sir.” Lydia’s expression is well-schooled. She knows what I am about to say, but she waits for it to come.

“But you had,” I say. “Your job is to protect her from harm. Someone got close enough to dose my bride. It could have been anyone, with anything.”

Lydia stiffens. I know I am being hard on her, and probably unfair.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Permission granted.”

Lydia’s eyes meet mine. “Would you like me to hold onto your wife’s hand when she is at any public event, sir?” Lydia asks the question with an apparent sincerity, though we both know her words are dripping with sarcasm.

“That level of closeness might be unnecessary, but you understand my point.”

“I would have to be in immediate proximity to stop one of the ladies from offering her a pot to sniff. Should I have slapped it out of the Lady Emmaline’s hand? Or would you prefer I smacked your young wife, who has the self-preservation of the average stuffed animal, out of the way, sir?”

There are very few people in this world I would allow to speak to me that way. Lydia has earned the right of reply when it comes to me, but even so, she is pushing it with that response.

“Do what you need to do to ensure that does not happen again,” I say.

Lydia nods. “Understood, sir.”

“I am trusting you to keep a close eye on her, Lydia. Half an hour with Emmaline is enough to corrupt anybody. Tonight could very well have damaged her moral fiber.”

“Understood, sir,” Lydia repeats. “You could institute a urine analysis protocol in order to ensure that she is caught even if we somehow miss the signs.”

“We will not miss the signs. This is the most secure building in New Boston. I expect it to stay that way. It’s why you and thousands of other soldiers are here.”

“It is possible she will occasionally go outside, sir.”

Lydia has a way of delivering her points completely deadpan that is respectful while somehow sub-textually calling me an idiot.

“True.”

I wonder if there is some way of keeping her inside, before dismissing the thought as the insanity it is. I love her, but that does not mean keeping her prisoner. I’ll just have to make sure the world knows that causing her harm in any way leads to terrible consequences.