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Katarina’s mother says that a shiny wedding ring is the sign of a poor marriage. That is to say, a ring should always sit on the fourth finger on the left hand, only to be removed at night, before bed. Any other occasion where the ring is taken off, tucked away in a pocket or hidden away in a jewellery box, Katarina’s mother would consider that infidelity.
No matter, Katarina upholds the image set by her House, feigning contentment in a marriage that cognitively brings her misery. She hides it well, of course, behind her signature half-smirks and those slippery words that give the impression that all is fine. That she is comfortable being resigned to the position of Head of House Du Couteau.
Marriage keeps her away from the Blade, so as to not raise suspicion, because Katarina does not need her loyalty questioned any further. So, she maintains the delicate balance between the Blade and the Empire’s complicated politics. And she keeps her mouth shut whenever her wife’s former House is mentioned.
There are still many weeds that need to be eliminated, but Katarina’s mother has advised her against pulling out those weeds herself, so as to not follow in her father’s footsteps which nearly cost them the legacy of their House.
Shame and humiliation will not be the cause of her House’s downfall. And it will certainly not be Katarina who drags their House into an early grave.
Although, that does not mean she needs to conceal her jealousy when her brother, Talon, returns to the manor after having eliminated a mark. He is allowed his freedom, all the while Katarina can only watch, one by one as the shadows fall. She hears Talon when she is in the study, pretending to be asleep. He has never been as stealthy as her.
Katarina twirls the silver ring between her fingers, glimpsing the inscription written on the inside of the band. Blood above everything. It leaves a foul taste on her tongue. She grips the ring harshly, feeling the little gems and the sharp diamond pressing against her palm. The corners of her lips curl dismissively. She swallows thickly, waiting until the echo of her brother’s footsteps disappear down the hallway.
The door to the study opens.
Katarina adjusts quickly, moving her feet off the mahogany desk and sitting upright in the chair. She sees her wife stepping into the room and promptly slips the ring back onto her finger.
«Ophelia,» Katarina begins, trying her best to sound pleased, «shouldn’t you be asleep?»
«The bed is cold,» Ophelia responds as she ties the silk robe tight around her body.
Ophelia eyes Katarina from across the room, then turns, shutting the door and making sure it is locked. It gives them both the false sense of privacy, of being alone.
The Du Couteau manor is of a comfortable size, a significant stretch away from the Immortal Bastion, but one can never be too careful. Even the walls have ears. Having a sharp tongue can have its consequences.
Ophelia crosses the room. The curtains have been pulled closed in front of the lengthy windows, the oil lamps have been dimmed, the bookshelves stretch from the floor to the black-painted ceiling. Ophelia passes all the paintings of the former Heads of House Du Couteau. First General Marcus Du Couteau, followed by Aurelius, Helia, and then Althea. They will have to make space for Katarina’s portrait soon.
«I’m sure you didn’t miss my presence,» Katarina stares Ophelia down, tapping her fingers against the desk.
«No, I didn’t,» Ophelia lifts herself up onto the desk instead of draping herself over the chaise lounge in the corner, «but I’m bored.»
Ophelia tilts her head as she runs a hand through her blonde locks. Her eyes are dark, her lips round and full. A dangerous combination. Ophelia can be quite bewitching.
«Read a book.»
Ophelia laughs at that and crosses her legs. She leans back, finding Katarina’s glare that sparks a thousand fires within her chest. Ophelia winks at her.
«I have read everything in this house,» Ophelia drawls, «I could recite your entire House’s history without needing to think first. Nothing excites me. You’re all so boring. Quiet and boring, and so disgustingly dismissive.»
Katarina narrows her eyes, wanting to shove Ophelia off the desk and push her out of the study so as to be able to think clearly. Ophelia brings a grey cloud wherever she goes.
«Where’s your ring?»
Katarina eyes Ophelia’s slender finger with suspicion.
Ophelia brings her hand to her chest, holding it above her heart. She tugs at the robe, revealing that tantalising flesh; the junction between her throat and collarbone. Pale, and so inviting.
«Are you worried?» Ophelia groans.
Katarina’s hand curls into a fist. She will not be made a mockery of.
«Where’s your ring, Ophelia?»
Ophelia plays with the ends of her hair, twirling them around a single digit, then letting those thick strands slip through her fingers.
«Do you really care?»
«No, I suppose I don’t,» Katarina sighs, leaning back in the chair and crossing her arms over her chest.
«That’s a lie,» Ophelia follows her, stretching across the desk. She whispers: «I thought we weren’t supposed to lie to each other. Do you even remember your vows? Or were you distracted by other things? Have the words fled your mind? Do I need to remind you of them, dear wife?»
«Do you?» Katarina raises her gaze, then bites the inside of her mouth, «do you remember your vows, wife?»
Ophelia twists, she arches her back as she hauls herself onto the desk. She sits with her legs tucked under her, this half-poised position that would be acceptable if Ophelia was sitting on a chair, not spread like a feline across Katarina’s luxurious desk.
Official council documents crumple beneath Ophelia as she shifts and angles herself. She stretches out her leg, revealing herself even more, but then she sends Katarina’s precious books and quills tumbling off the edge. Ophelia smiles to herself, satisfied.
«To think, all I did was let you believe you could have me. And it was fun letting you chase me, then me chasing you, but look where that has led us. We’ve run out of breath, and now we’re both miserable because of it!» Ophelia huffs, «gods, I underestimated your mother —how persuasive she can be. And my mother was unable to refuse such a… promising alliance.»
Ophelia clicks her tongue as if to prove a point. Then she reaches into her robe, there is a pocket sewn on the inside, and she pulls out the silver ring that binds her and Katarina together. Has sealed their fate and only death can pry them apart.
«At least you have good taste,» Ophelia says as a way to comfort herself. She slips the shiny ring encrusted with small gems and a larger diamond, nearly identical to the one Katarina has, back onto her finger and then waves it in front of Katarina’s face.
Ophelia is the vision of loveliness, truly —but only when she is able to keep her mouth shut. Her words are as wily and slippery as the snake that wraps itself around the Noradi House crest. She is both at once a beautiful dream and a walking nightmare.
Worst of all, but unsurprisingly, Ophelia makes a horrible wife.
Only a fool would try to tame a beast.
Katarina is stuck trying to appease Ophelia — in all the wrong ways, according to Ophelia — lest House Du Couteau be pulled down along with the Noradi’s. They share a fair number of secrets between them now, such is inevitable when one becomes married. But Ophelia is opinionated, and stubborn, and has expensive taste despite her House struggling in their current economical disposition.
«I let you keep your cat,» Katarina says suddenly. A reminder that Katarina is not as horrible as Ophelia insists she is.
«I got you that whelp,» Ophelia counters, «Stavros, was it?»
Katarina presses her clenched fist against her mouth to hide her smirk, thinking about that small wet thing Ophelia had dropped onto her lap one evening. She ended up naming it Stavros, after the broken cross that Ophelia had found it hiding under during a rainstorm.
«We’re not doing this again,» Ophelia says, ending their silly game before it can escalate into an argument. She plays with the end of the sash that keeps her robe shut tight.
Katarina eyes Ophelia carefully, refusing to let herself be pulled along.
«No, we’re not,» Katarina agrees, having grown tired of listing all the things they do to make each other happy.
But then, Ophelia says: «I have suitors, you know.»
There is a glint in her eyes. She tilts her head back, showing off that swan-like neck. She looks up at the ceiling.
«They pull me aside,» she declares, then looks back down at Katarina, «they whisk me away to the overgrown garden where they think no one is watching. And they wrap their hands around my waist to pull me closer, then they whisper in my ear, telling me about all the ways they’ll make me happy, the happiest bride that ever lived. They say the same thing, how nobody needs to know, certainly not you of all people. And they make promises they can’t keep. I’ve never told you, but I can’t stand people who can’t keep to their words. Oh! And I do love words, and my books back home, and vows, unbreakable vows.»
Katarina is unamused.
«Do you want me to name them?» She frowns, « your suitors, I mean.»
«Don’t tell me. You’ve been approached as well?»
The insinuation that Katarina has been offered the same propositions makes Ophelia’s stomach churn. She grimaces, then huffs, thinking the idea ridiculous. Thinking it an insult to her former House, as if the Noradi can be pushed aside for some supposedly greater House.
«You’re a Du Couteau now,» Katarina stands, meeting Ophelia’s harsh glare, «or does that mean nothing to you? You owe it to my House, when we pulled yours out of the gutter. Do not think for one moment that I do not know about your affiliations, about the circle that wraps itself around House Noradi. A word from me, and Swain will vanquish your legacy. Your mother, your mother’s mother, an entire House, gone. In one night. As if it never existed.»
Ophelia lifts her chin, as if to prove that her former House bows to no-one. An idea crosses her mind; a horrible idea followed by a sweet grin. She has thought about it before, too many times. And Ophelia places a finger against the corner of her mouth, biting the soft tip. She undoes her robe, pulling the sash free, revealing her body and the lace that covers the softest parts of herself.
Ophelia surges forwards, arching her back. She reaches for the belt around Katarina’s waist and tugs Katarina closer, until she is pressed against the edge of the desk. Ophelia swiftly undoes the belt, fiddling with the buckle for only a moment.
Katarina hums above her.
Ophelia feels a hand brushing her hair, fingers getting caught in her straight blonde locks that she labours over every night. And Ophelia resists the urge to scowl.
In a flash, Ophelia pulls herself up and wraps the belt around Katarina’s neck.
«I will always be a Noradi!» Ophelia hisses.
Katarina is quicker, and places a fisted hand by her neck, keeping Ophelia from strangling her.
«And I am a Du Couteau!» Katarina snarls.
She grabs a handful of Ophelia’s hair, pulling her closer, until their bodies knock and batter against each other. The mahogany desk groans beneath their combined weight. And suddenly Ophelia’s pretty silk robe lies discarded on the floor, and Katarina’s belt is hanging off the back of the chair.
The official council documents will have to wait till morning, and will most likely have to be rewritten as they lie smothered beneath Ophelia’s back and Katarina who frantically moves on top of her.