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Matthias walked to her with slow intent, his eyes holding hers in a way that made her blood gush and her chest hurt. He held a hand out and she placed hers in it, her stomach doing loops. She ignored those feelings and breathed out in an attempt to steady herself.
He led her to the middle of the dance floor and then the priest approached, a smile on his face showing they’d fooled him, at least. He held in his hands a small spool of silver thread. Once he was close enough he spoke soft words in Tolmirón, then began to loop the thread from her hand to Matthias’s and back again. She remembered being told about this, but it had been so long ago she forgot the significance of it.
Some kind of tradition, though.
When their hands were bound tightly, the priest nodded and stepped away. Music began to play, soft and beautiful, and Matthias brought her closer to his chest, holding her there so she could hear the beating of his untouchable heart.
‘This thread is from the Mediterranean silk crab,’ he said. ‘It is native to the caves of Tolmirós. Their silk grows deep beneath the ocean’s surface. For as long as there are records, royal marriages have been blessed by this binding. It is said that dancing with the threads like this promises a long and happy marriage.’
Her fingers were aching beneath the beautiful silk. She inherently rejected everything he said.
‘I see.’
She felt rather than heard his sigh. He didn’t speak for the rest of the dance, but afterwards they stood with their hands bound, smiling at their guests.
‘Is it over?’ she asked quietly, her heart stammering inside her.
He tilted a glance at her, his face hiding whatever he was feeling, and then he nodded. ‘We may leave.’
She kept her expression bland, her back straight, as they slipped out of the crowded ballroom to cheers and applause from all assembled. She walked beside him through the ancient corridors of the palace but as soon as they rounded the corner and were in the privacy of their residence at last, she pulled at her hand.
It wouldn’t come loose. She pulled again, lifting her other hand to rip the threads free. Only they wouldn’t disentangle, and it was suddenly almost impossible for Frankie to breathe.
‘Please get this off,’ she said, looking up at him with panic, pulling on it.
His alarm was obvious. ‘Calm down, deliciae—’
‘Don’t call me that. Please. Get it off. I can’t... I can’t... I can’t breathe.’ She bit down on her lip, pulling on her hand until he held her still.
‘You’re only making it tighter. Just be still.’
But she couldn’t. She kept pulling and he swore, reaching out and curling his fingers around her chin. ‘You must be still.’ He spoke loudly and firmly so that she stopped struggling and stood, her teeth chattering and her stomach in knots. Watching her the whole time, he eased a finger beneath the threads and found the loose end. He unthreaded them as quickly as he was able, but it still took longer than a minute and in that time Frankie’s panic only rose, her huge eyes darkening, her face draining of colour. Finally, when he was almost done, she pulled at her hand and rubbed it in front of her.
‘It’s just threads,’ he said in an apparent attempt to reassure her.
Only it wasn’t just threads. They were married now, bound in all the ways a man and a woman could be united: tied together for life by law and by a child and, for Frankie, by love. But her love wasn’t enough. It never had been—it never would be.
She needed to get away from him as soon as possible.
* * *
He glared at the painting and, for the hundredth time in the four weeks since Leo and Frankie had left the palace, contemplated moving it. He knew he should. He knew it had no place in his life, let alone here in the place he undertook important government work.
The painting had always been a distraction, from the day it had arrived, but at least before it had been a pleasant distraction. Now it served
only to plunge him into a black hole of anger, a deep place of desolate realism.
She was gone.
It had been four weeks.
He turned his attention to the documents in front of him and read them again, then, with an impatient thrust of his hand, pushed them away. It was barely afternoon, but he stood and crossed to the bar on the other side of the room and poured himself a stiff measure of whisky. He inhaled it, then threw it back, his hand slightly unsteady when he refilled the glass.
What time had he gone to bed the night before? Three? Four?
He couldn’t recall.
He glared at the painting from up close, seeing the brushstrokes and imagining the way her hand would have moved as she painted it. He hated the painting in that moment with a visceral rage because it embodied so much of who Frankie was, what she was, and he’d never felt more distant from her—nor that she was more out of his reach.
