Chapter Sixteen

HE COULDN’T.

The decision had circled in Janez’s mind from the moment Held had touched his hand. It hadn’t been a friendly touch. Rather, it had carried the heat and intent of a carnal wish, a lustful desire, the want to travel from simple hand to other complexities, and Janez had wished equally to allow it.

But he couldn’t.

He’d twitched away with a soft smile and urged Held to come deeper into the gardens to see the willow trees and the buds of the winter roses. But Held had stolen little looks from that moment on, and Janez had wanted, with every fibre of his being, to turn them into the shadows of the trees, uncover the pale form he’d carried from the cells in his own overcoat, and kiss every inch of it. Rouse that bright excitement into something darker and hungrier and allow it to take him.

But. He. Couldn’t.

Janez had always been careful with his liaisons, ever since Greta. The brothel in the harbour stood more to lose by loosened tongues than it stood to gain by gossip. They guarded their customers jealously, and Janez was certain, though had nothing set in stone, that he was not the only lord to visit, nor perhaps even the only royal. He’d never yielded even to the most beautiful temptations at royal functions and diplomatic balls—despite the suggestions of one such princess some years ago during the longest and most difficult waltz of Janez’s life. He’d never so much as slept with his servants, certain of their predilection for gossip, and led a staunchly chaste life, almost saintly, when at sea.

And to risk a scandal now, when he was to be married off to secure this alliance… Sigurd would jump at the chance to secure a prince for one of his daughters rather than some ambitious lord, but he was not a desperate man. Janez couldn’t possibly risk the match by a dalliance with a—

A what, exactly?

After all, despite his assurances to his brother and the doctor, what did Janez know? Held was as foreign as they came. He was clearly from some poverty-stricken family—who else would find such joy and wonder in curtains, of all things—and didn’t even have the sensibilities of a servant. It was likely he’d been a ship’s boy his whole life, and how long had that been? Held was a man, true, but Janez had known sixteen-year-olds as tall and gruff-voiced, and forty-year-olds as smooth-skinned and wide-eyed. He knew nothing about Held, and so, the risk was far too great.

But he hadn’t wanted like this since—

Well. Since the very first one.

The first had been a girl, and Janez but fifteen and quite hopelessly in love. A man now, he knew it to be infatuation, passion, lust, and little more—but at the time, it had been love, his first love, his only. Greta had been the woman he would marry, the mother of his thousand sons, and they would all have those beautiful dark curls that had driven him wild.

She’d been a scullery maid.

She’d also been hypnotic by lamplight, with the sweat on her sweet skin, her little moans like music to his ears, her kisses the very air he breathed. Nothing short of captivating—he’d have sacrificed all for her, every drop of blood, every breath in his lungs. He’d utterly loved her, and she him, and the world had been—in her embrace—completely perfect.

She’d borne him a child—or at least, Janez supposed she had. Father had sent her from the palace, to serve some other lord. Had told Janez, stern and imposing, that one liaison as a barely grown man was excusable, perhaps even beneficial for when the time came to find him a true wife, but it would be the only time.

He’d never seen Greta again, never mind the child she must have birthed that autumn, and now nearly fifteen years on, Janez rarely thought of it. Secrecy was second nature now. He could ruin his family, his very kingdom, by indiscretion and infidelity. And so, as negotiations would surely commence the moment Sigurd received Alarik’s messenger, he couldn’t possibly take what Held’s grasp had offered, however much he wanted to.

Janez had long since learned, fifteen years since, that his life had no room for the things he wanted.

It was about duty. And duty made him pull away, smile, and continue as though he’d never noticed the offer. Duty made him show off the gardens as though to a visiting princess. Duty made him leash his want, leash even the very thoughts that escaped, now and then, about how wonderfully enchanted Held was by the simplest things, how his mouth begged to be kissed, how euphoric he’d look in the grip of pure ecstasy—

Janez clamped down on them all, one by one, but they came regardless.

And they had enough grip that, while he stuck to duty and kept his hands to himself, he shirked the other parts of it. He ought to have been at his king’s side, or at the harbour assisting his captain with the restocking of the ship. Instead, he kept following this stranger, showing him gardens and trees and greenhouses, showing him the great ballroom and the portraits of his forefathers in the hall that led towards the south wing and the library.

There, Held took great interest in Janez’s portrait—painted just shy of Alarik’s coronation, when Janez had become the crown prince for two mercifully short years, and thus depicting that thrice-damned crown and grotesque fur cloak. The damn thing reeked; the stench was so bad Janez swore it was the same as worn by the first-ever king north of the mountains in all of history. But Held seemed to like it, staring in fascination for a long time, and finally gesturing at the crown and mumbling something Janez didn’t even recognise as language.

“My crown?” he asked. “I was the heir to the throne. Now I am second in line, so I don’t have to wear it.”

Held stared blankly, and Janez thought on it. Finally, he pointed to Alarik’s portrait—not from the coronation itself, not in this hall, but from Ingrid’s first painting. It was a simple family portrait: king, queen, and tiny princess, her golden curls a mess even in this respectful depiction.

“My brother,” Janez said clearly, tapping Alarik’s oiled face. “Brother.”

Nothing. Damn.

“Come with me,” Janez said and led Held to the library. It was gloomy and dusty, undisturbed likely for days now that Doktor Hauser was buried in his vile experiments, and Janez shook open a heavy set of curtains before finding some parchment and an ink bottle in a desk. The quill was wilting and feeble in his hand; the nib was crooked, and the ink therefore blotchy, but it serviced well enough that he was able to scratch his stick figures and a brief family tree. The line joining himself to his brother went above; the line between Alarik and Sofia went below, and from it sprouted Ingrid. The baby, yet too young to be named, would not appear in the history of the world for nearly a year yet, in case it drew fate’s foul attentions and he was damned to die in his crib as so many babies did.

“Me,” Janez said, gesturing to his little depiction. When Held stared blankly, Janez sighed and tapped it again, saying his name instead.

A spark of recognition. Aha.

“Alarik,” he continued, tapping his brother. “King Alarik.”

Slowly, Held reached out and took the quill. It shifted clumsily in his fingers, the ink staining them at once. He examined it as if it were some strange new invention, and then pressed nib to parchment—too hard, but no matter—and scratched, very carefully, a crown above Alarik’s round head.

Janez beamed. “Yes!”

Held smiled, a white flash of brilliance that had the breath catching in Janez’s chest for a split second before he forced his gaze away.

Hand’s finger tapped the tiny Ingrid, then, with her inky corkscrew curls. “Ingrid?”

“Yes.”

Held stroked the lines, smearing the still-wet ink. Stroked from Ingrid to Alarik, and then Alarik to Janez. Stroked back again. Murmured something to himself.

And then smiled.

It was the brightest smile Janez had ever seen, and he gaped like a stupid landsman as Held turned it to him. It was transformative. That sombre, ethereal face was suddenly oh-so-human and impossibly beautiful. It lit him up, as if the sun were behind his very skin, and Janez leaned in, reaching up—

He curled his fingers into fists and drew back. No. Good Lord, no. He returned his hands to the table instead, licking his lips nervously.

And jumped, quite violently, when Held’s fingers slid into his.

Time stopped.

The dust motes hanging in the air froze in place, tiny sparkles in the dark. Held’s skin was dry and cool against his. Fingers filled the spaces between his and tightened. And Janez could barely breathe.

He ought to have pulled away. Ought to have instructed Held on the inappropriate—perfection—of holding his hand in such a manner. Ought to have snuffed out the tension in the room, and his longing to close the space and take advantage of the solitude. To fill the silence with sound other than speech.

He ought to have done a lot of things.

And he did. But—it was the longest time before he could.