Hours after the arrival of the Haymarks Andrew sat inside the Royal study. It was one of the few wings of the castle with a fireplace, which is what had drawn him to it that afternoon. Their walk outside had been chilly and damp. Autumn and Winter had always been his least favorite seasons.
Andrew sat behind the vast wooden desk that his father had commissioned from wood of the western provinces; the entire thing had been carved from a single tree, older than the kingdom itself. The chair in which he sat had been carved from a sister tree, but Andrew had of course had it cushioned and upholstered to ease his bony hips. His mother had suggested it.
A woman distracted herself across the room from him, shifting through the rows of books that lined each wall, every one of them too detailed and old to peak her interests. Andrew intentionally looked away from the woman.
She worked her way about the room, being sure to bend over at just the right angles, swat her hips a bit more dramatically, stretch her arms up to reach a taller shelf for no reason other than to push her breasts up higher in the corset. It became harder with every motion to keep his eyes away. Eventually the girl appeared to grow bored of the show she put on. She sighed loudly and circled the room again.
"... So exactly how is life as king, Andrew?"
He looked up from his lap. There stood Marybelle, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Haymark. Her shoulders had relaxed since walking among the others. Now that no one else watching, she had no shame in removing her fur wraps and loosening the front ties of her dress, though she thought Andrew wouldn't notice, to expose even more of her cleavage.
"As was to be expected."
"Is that so?"
Her accent perked his interest. He hadn't remembered how pointed and quaint it could be. It was more appealing than the longer, more drawling sound of the Constentinians. A high voice seemed relieving for once; more musical to his ears.
"Must you always be so serious?" Marybelle quipped, giving him half a pout.
"Serious?" he questioned. "I am not."
"You are. You aren't speaking. You're scowling."
He said nothing; only stared forward. He was king. What attention did she think should be spared?
Marybelle crossed her arms, and her brow. She looked down at him. "We used to speak without end, and run, and play. You pulled my braids and teased me. You took pride in your schooling – you'd drawl on for hours on subjects no one cared for. You loved your country. Now what?"
He suddenly didn't like her tone, musical as it was.
"You're so quiet...." She neared. "It worries me, Andrew."
Again, Andrew said nothing. She didn't like his silence, but he did not have anything to say. A hand stretched out; brushed the shoulder of his cloak as she circled him, like a cat trying to play. Her voice sank.
"It is your wife, isn't it? She disappoints you." When he said nothing, Marybelle continued. "She's changed you."
Andrew did not answer. He continued to stare into his hands. It was harder to think those days. He had gotten used to others speaking for him. Thoughts felt fuzzy in his head, like wading through his own answers took so much effort it was just easier to pass the responsibility. He was king, he had to remind himself. His voice mattered.
Amelia? Amelia hadn't changed him. But the thought of her did cause his gut to simmer in anger.
"This isn't what you need, Andrew. You let others come before yourself so often it's like you've forgotten what you deserve. She isn't suited for you. But I'm here for you."
