Page 71 of The Familiar

She had moved behind the screen that protected her bath and he heard her whisper to the water.

He slipped out the door and quickly down the hall. He could hear muffled voices, someone weeping. He knew he shouldn’t go back to Luzia’s rooms but he knew he would.

When he returned with the bottle, she was already in the bath. The room was soft with the heat of the water, the windows clouded with mist.

“Santángel?” she called, afraid.

“I’m here.”

He poured her a glass of wine and set it on the table behind the screen so she could reach for it.

“You’ll stay?” she asked.

“I will not leave until you send me away.” Or until I’m driven mad by wanting.

He removed his cloak and settled himself against the wall beside the screen.

“Will you talk to me?” she asked. He could hear the sounds of her in the water and imagined her limbs slick with moisture, the glimpse of her bare knees above the surface.

“What would you have me say?”

“I don’t wish to speak of the torneo or devils or kings. Tell me what ailed you when we met.”

“I was sick because this life has made me so. Because it drains me and bores me, but I still cling to it as a child to his mother’s hand. After all these years of sorrow, I want to live.”

“You cannot die?”

“I can,” he conceded. “But I’m too much of a coward. There’s little else to say about it.”

“Just talk. Talk to me. As if we were friends. As if there’s a future.”

“I’ve forgotten what it is to have a friend, to speak easily and openly.”

“All is machination.”

“All is scheming.”

“Why do you stay with him?” she asked.

How to answer? After so many years of protecting his own secrets the habit was hard to relinquish. “I’ll tell you a story. That’s all I can grant, a bit of make-believe.”

“I’ll take it,” she said magnanimously, and he found himself smiling, despite the tale he was about to tell.

He tried to think of where to begin. “Long ago, there was a wealthy young man—”

“Was he a prince?”

“Let’s say so. It makes for a better story.”

“Good. Was he handsome?”

“Some thought so. He was rich. He was well schooled. He was beloved. He was a second son and his father’s favorite because he had a gift for learning, which his father valued even above gold. The prince wanted for nothing. He traveled to distant lands and met with scholars and brought back rare manuscripts to add to his father’s collection. He spent every day in happy debate over philosophy and science and the moving of the stars. He spent every night pursuing pleasure. He fucked when he wanted to and drank when he wanted to. He knew that he was lucky in the way that lucky people do.”

“So not at all.”

“Not at all,” Santángel agreed. “Everywhere he went he was welcome. When he joined a party they were merry. When he left they fell into despair. He thought his life would always be easy.”

“If it had been, there would be no story.”