Page 82 of The Court of Venus

He bit his lip. “Mine is not to serve the king or wield power at court. It is that I’ve always longed for children. To be a father. I told you. It is the most enduring bond a Venusborn can see.”

My hand fell to the pillow beside him.

His eyes had dulled. “When Prospero first told me, I’d come to him because I’d—” He cringed slightly. “Well, Hal was convinced I ought to be prepared.”

“Who was it?”

He smiled into the pillow. I could only see a crescent of his face. “Regrettably, Kitty Seton.” His smile widened at my scowl. “She was sixteen. Beautiful. I was—”

“Fourteen, yes. I remember.”

“I went to Prospero, seeking his counsel, asking for herbs to prevent pregnancy so I could give them to her. He laughed and asked, ‘Roland, why would you need those?’ I didn’t understand. He sat me down and told me. It took me a long while to understand the significance of what he was saying. I didn’t realize I wanted a family one day until he told me it was impossible. Naturally, we all crave what we can never have. When did you know?”

“I suppose he told me when I was a girl. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know. He explained it to me as a balance to dynastic rule. If magicians could have children, magic would pass through bloodlines. There is no pattern to magic, he said, other than a lucky alignment at birth.”

“Ah, but isn’t being born to a king, into power, a matter of chance, too?”

“Yes, but as magicians, who we come from, or where, doesn’t matter. We are blessed because the planets favor us, not because of who our fathers were. If you could have a son, he’d have a famous name. Perhaps your magic would be diluted in him, and his son, and his son, until there was only a trickle left. You’d have half-magicians, and quarter-magicians, all diminished over time. All struggling to retain the power you hold now.”

He considered this. “I understand why fate dealt us this hand. We are special. Singular. Prospero called us star creatures. But I would give up all my specialness, all my magic, if it meant I would die with a family surrounding me, loving me.” Our noses were inches from each other as he whispered, “Wouldn’t you?”

“I have always known I was meant to be alone, so I never let myself think about it. Those desires are the most dangerous. The impossible ones.”

Our eyes held as he nodded.

“You should sleep.”

“Can’t.”

“I’ll help you.” I brushed his hair behind his ears until his head dipped to rest against my shoulder.

The past rose up, and I sank into it. We were thirteen and nine, fourteen and ten. Fifteen and eleven. On and on and on. Now we were twenty-six and twenty-two, and once again, as I had so many times before, I swept fatigue into his mind. His lips parted, his jaw unclenched. I inhaled every even breath he exhaled. He inhaled mine.

It was impossible we were here, I told myself as I watched him sleep. As my own eyes drooped.

It was impossible.

Nineteen

Pray to Mars and get new scars.

Pray to Venus for a kiss between us.

—A CHILDREN’S RHYME

As I suspected, the games in Marguerite’s privy chamber involved no cards, no chess pieces. Instead, her ladies were spread on cushions on the floor. Roland had a lute in his lap, a cup of wine at his feet, a heady grin as he laughed and plucked his strings to the delight of a ring of courtiers.

When I was announced by an usher, Roland glanced in my direction, then ducked his head to flirt with a handsome man in his circle. I joined another group, nodding whenever I felt I was supposed to.

On the other side of the room, Roland was not particular with who he complimented, who he teased. His flattery was well spread. The pretty lady-in-waiting who stole his attention next was fair-haired and doe-eyed. Her low bodice exposed to him as he taught her notes on the lute.

We’d spent our first full day in Lionesse touring the lush grounds and feasting, and during every conversation we avoided each other’s eyes. I couldn’t shake the mortification of this morning: lifting myself from Roland’s chest as sunlight shattered across his body, how tightly we were pressed together. Realizing I had spent the night in his bed. Roland grumbled in his sleep and frowned, pulling me closer. I crept from the bedchamber before he woke.

Suddenly, a pair of arms knit themselves through mine.

Marguerite. She leaned close to whisper. “Do accept my apologies for yesterday, Mistress Mortlake. You will, won’t you?”

“Of course. I understood it for what it was. A jest.”