“It comes with years of training,” she replied, seemingly catching herself and he presumed she had just spoken the utmost truth without meaning to.
“Training?” he asked. “What sort?”
“The focused kind,” she replied. “Why don’t you ask me about something more general?”
“The room was fairly general,” he said.
“The room is your mother’s favorite,” she replied, getting to her feet. She began to walk slowly, circling the sofa as she finished, “I would hardly call it general.”
“How are you enjoying the buffet?” he tried.
She snorted a soft laugh.
“What?” he wondered. The question was one he had been asked often enough.
“It’s too general,” she said. “Make an observation of what the person has in their hands.”
“But there’s nothing in your hands.”
“No, but this is a mere simulation, is it not? Make something up. ‘Ah, I see you have sampled the salmon pâté. How are you finding it?’ And when they tell you it is the best salmon pâté they have ever tasted, you tell them you shall let the kitchen staff know. They will be thrilled. This way you show the person that you’re taking a personal interest in them by noticing what they have on their plate, and that you’re a benevolent ruler who recognizes the toil of those who put what’s on their plate there in the first place. Songs will be written; melodies shall be sung.”
He huffed a soft laugh at that, eyes trailing her and as she had come full-circle, she stopped before him.
“It’s about taking an active interest in the person whom you are addressing,” she said. “That is the secret to any good exchange. Be in the moment.”
He observed her and asked, “Why did you do it?”
The words flowed out of his mouth before he could even pause to reflect on whether they should. It was a vague enough question that he could get out of if he wanted to, but he also wanted to know. And he wanted to see what she would reply if he didn’t back down.
“Do what?” she asked.
“Go against the fabric of our society. You said you’ve had a change of heart.”
She stiffened, glancing at Petrus and Eric. He had no clue why. Would she not want anyone else to know? Did she still fear there were spies everywhere, perhaps not only for those that would label her a traitor, but for those that would kill her for betraying their cause?
“Forgive me,” he said, getting to his feet, feeling a sudden need to shield her from all of it. “I should not have asked.”
“No,” she said, voice lowered. It took a moment, but then she turned her eyes up to rest them on his, and he realized how close he stood. Had he chosen to stand this close? He could feel her body heat radiate gently from her skin. His hand hung at his side, and all he needed to do was shift ever so slightly and their fingers would be touching.
Why did he think that she wanted him to?
“No,” she repeated, tilting her chin up a little further. “You have every right to ask. And ask again. Every day you can ask this question, and you won’t get an answer out of me.” It sounded definitive, but he didn’t care. His fingers reached for hers and brushed over her skin.
Did she mean it, or was she only speaking these words because there were others in the room?
How was she doing, really? Had he asked her that question yet?
“Your father,” he changed the subject. “He’s a great man.”
“He’s a fine man,” she corrected lightly. “But a great warrior.”
“Have you missed him?”
The response was to the point. “Yes.”
But there was a tight smile on her lips, as she stepped away from him, breaking the closeness to walk up to the only painting in the room. It was the view from the highest turret, the citadel below and the forest stretching on either side of the road leading to the castle, tumbling over hills to the distant snow-capped mountains that lined the horizon. It had captured the witching hour perfectly, the sun a breath from rising.
“My mother spent many hours of her life waiting for that sunrise,” he said, apropos of nothing.
