Glamourie glossed a multitude of tiny cracks. The last two days in the city had been like being lost in a maze where all the hedges concealed iron thorns, until she had unconsciously adopted a stiff-backed, wary walk. The constant noise made it impossible to differentiate one sound from another, which made her nervous; she could tell a near sound from a far-off one, but not with the sort of precision she was used to. Anything could be standing right behind her and she wouldn’t be able to hear it until it was too late. And they were always right behind her: there was nowhere to go without running headlong into people, no peace, no privacy, the filth, the stink. It undermined her in ways she did not fully understand. All she knew was that she wanted to get away from it.
Which was silly. Queen of Cnoch-na-Niall, the woman who had walked on her own power from the High Queen’s court, first queen to cross the sea since the Sisters, didn’t slink away defeated just because things were too noisy or crowded to suit her. If she wanted, she could have this entire city twisted around her finger by sunset, except who would want it? She would not trade a single patch of parkland in Cnoch-na-Niall for the whole rotten stew of Razasan.
Here was better. Alone with one person she knew well, in a quiet, closed room, gave her the luxury of a false second wind. She was confident that she could keep this going forever—or at least longer than he could, which was all that really mattered.
Which was probably why he was able to pull the rug out from under her for the second time in as many minutes.
She blinked, a bit stupidly, in disbelief that he would ever think such a thing—or at least, that he would be such a fool as to tell her he was thinking it. “Why?” No accusation, only confusion. Her voice was plaintive. “Why would you want that? To be proof against glamourie in general, or just to avoid something like this happening again? It won't. There’s no one I’ve found Here yet who knows the true glamourie and it’s not likely you’ll ever happen across any other Tuatha save for me.”
The obvious reason fetched her up hard, drew her short. A sense of dull, worn inescapability, like the toll of an iron bell, fell over her. Hadn’t she thought, during the brief terrifying slip when he’d had her name, that it might come down to this? Like giving a drunkard a bottle. Like feeling on the floor to find the wires behind a trick where there was no trick. It felt like being punched in the throat.
Drawing herself back to full height, she flicked her head to knock a loose curl from between her eyes and stamped a bare foot: more the body language of a small, stubborn pony more than of a queen. “It doesn’t even work like that. You can’t just build a tolerance to glamourie. It isn’t poison. Dash it all, I’m not a…I’m not s-some…some sort of rusting…apothecary.”
The stammering broke her momentum. Underneath the carefully crafted pique, genuine, stark distress strained at the corners of her mouth. Her dark face burned darker and the tips of her ears felt hot as lighted candlewicks. She fumbled to regain enough righteous indignation to restore her poise. It didn’t work. She stared at him with numb, icy hurt.
“Well. Good luck to you, I suppose.” She started across the room, back to the chair, where she scooped up her shoes. “Write me and let me know how it all works out.”