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“Tir…” Oliver’s voice was reverent; his expression was that of the first man to gaze at the stars. “Tir. You’re amazing.”
“I’m yours,” Tir said. “Always. I’ll call you a parsnip if you’d like.”
“Any time you want,” Ollie whispered, and kissed him, safe and deep and sweet as moonbeams.
* * * *
The next day, they spent most of the morning together—joint negotiations between the Fairy Court and the Small Council, working out the joining of kingdoms, boundaries, and small important questions such as diplomatic relations with the closest southern neighbors. Bellemare had always had friendly—if somewhat uneasy—trade relations, and Fairy-touched goods and produce and wood were valuable. Even more Fairy had poured in, however, these days; the border of the wild country was suddenly a lot closer than some other kingdoms felt comfortable with.
They did not, in the end, get much done. Tir suspected that the more productive discussions would happen one on one, later, with his mother and Oliver’s, regal and commanding. He and Ollie had taken on more responsibility, and they both needed to be involved, but they were still only the respective Princes, and both Queens were used to guiding the world.
In the afternoon he went over to talk to the printers, because their explanations of the newfangled process had not helped with comprehension; the demonstration helped more. The magic-infused ink-sketches did indeed move. The craftspeople and fairies gathered in the workshop were extremely enthusiastic, and the five-minute leaping artwork sequence of a kitten chasing a butterfly left him fascinated, thinking about possibilities, about new industries and work and exports, about storytelling and art.
He came back and did not see Oliver anywhere around, and he thought that he should probably take better care of himself, so he requested tea and whatever food might be already available, nothing difficult, up in his office, while he tried to work out how one might build a new theatre for moving stories, and how to work that into the economic question. He’d been handling most of those treasury-related committee meetings and reports, because he was better at mathematics and more organized than Oliver.
The door opened. Tea and a tray arrived, brought not by young Polly or Lyle the butler but by Tir’s husband. Oliver did have that hint of magic, these days: nothing like what Tir had been, but an underhearing, a sense of right or wrong, an idea where people might be and how they felt. Clearly he’d felt that he needed to be here.
“Oh,” Tir said, setting down his pen. “Sorry, are you new to the palace staff, I thought I’d met everyone, I grew up here, you know.”
“Just a humble art student,” Oliver said, grinning, coming over with berry pies and a cheese-and-onion tart, “couldn’t pass up the chance to come and work at the palace, you know, so exciting, these days.”
“Extremely exciting. Who knows, you may even get the chance to sketch one of the princes.” He accepted a teacup when Oliver poured, and moved notes to make a spot to set it down. “Naked.”
“No wonder everyone wants to be assigned to your rooms.” Oliver also found a spot to sit, on the corner of Tir’s desk. His wedding ring shimmered, precious, matching Tir’s. “I’ll sketch you later. How’re you feeling?” He said it casually, simply checking in.
“Fine, mostly. Better. It’s not a bad day.” Oliver nodded. Tir said, “I’ve been learning about something I think you’ll like,” and then tried to explain, for a while. Ollie was equally fascinated, being an artist.
He also asked, “Are you about done, for the day?”
“No. Treasury committee reports. Yours and mine. Why?”
“I was just thinking.” Oliver poked at a slice of tart, did not eat it. “What you said, last night.”
“Ah. That. It was late and I’d had a…dream.”
“You’re right, though.” Oliver did a little half-shrug, rugged and eloquent. “It’s not fair, and you should get to feel that. You especially—you spent so long being here for all of us. For me. It’s our turn to be here for you. And it’s only been six months.”
“I’m sorry,” Tir said. He seemed to be apologizing a lot lately. “I know I ask a lot of you. So much is different, now. I know it’s hard for you as well.”
“It is, but that’s not my point.” Ollie ran a hand through his hair; it was rumpled anyway. He had charcoal on his hand, maybe from a sketch, stress-relief. “I want you to tell me if you hate this. If you’re unhappy. If you do regret it.”
“I don’t—”
“I know it’s ugly. But it’s human. And you’re human. More than you ever were.” Oliver nudged a berry pie his way. “Please eat.”
“I am! I asked for food!”
“You know…and I haven’t told you this…haven’t told anyone this…” Oliver sighed. “I was angry at you, for a while. Well, a few days. After you—after. Along with a lot of other emotions. Drink your tea.”
Tir bit his lip. Tasted copper, not medicinal willow-mint. He was decently sick of that particular herbal blend. “I’m sorry.”
“Not why I said it.” Ollie poked the berry pie again. A bit of crust flaked away and fell. “I don’t want you to think it was your fault. I also don’t want you to keep trying to shield me, or protect me, or be a martyr for me. We’ve done that. And it was awful. And—I didn’t hate you for it, how could I, I love you, but…sometimes I had to be angry with you, too.”
“I…don’t understand.”
“You read sensational novels,” Oliver said. “You know about complicated human emotion.”
“Mostly those’re about ghosts and cursed sapphire necklaces and mysteries and dreadful murders—”
