#edwardscymour

[alastrinie]

     There was nothing Alastrine wanted more than to tell her brother-in-law to shut up. Just, shut up. What was he prattling on about, anyways? Something about a war, about honeycombs, about a petition? She had no clue. The venom-laced words she wanted lodged in her throat--for the sun was blinding, her stomach twisted and turned, and the corset she wore was too tight, too constricting, everything just too tight. Taking a shaky breath, Alastrine shifted, palms wet, forehead wet.

     “Trinie dear,” Good God, why did he call her Trinie? The moniker was revolting through Nicholas’ lips, “I need you to talk to Edward for me. He never listens to me, you see. But he’ll listen to you. You understand? I need you to tell him that...” 

     His voice droned into the background along with everything else. Why had Edward left her alone with Nicholas? Was that why she felt so ill, so pale? Was the presence of her brother by marriage so grotesque that her body simply rejected him, his words, his inquiries, his insistence of her influence with Edward?

     No, that couldn’t be it. Something wasn’t right. Eyes, of their own doing, roamed around the flock of people, guffawing and chatting and making merry in the courtyard, “Edward,” The word was but a murmur on her lips, so quiet that Nicholas must not have heard it, for he did not cease in his going on and on. She wanted to bust out of this dress, these lacings. The weather was cold, but her skin was hot. Why was she so hot?

     She took a staggering step forward, perhaps to sit down, perhaps to find her husband, and in turn, collapsed to the ground, eyes closing against a clump of snow, that felt so sweet, so relieving against her cheek. The duchess heard Nicholas’ long speech cease, taper off, slowly, awkwardly, and heard shuffling, but not towards her.

     “Uh... Edward? Edward!” 

     @edwardscymour

[georgebcleyn-blog]

plot deus ex machina━

George awaited his answer, hand trailing on a pegboard underneath which swords hung like venison to be salted out. The viscount took in the enamel within Seymour’s office. An armoire rack as centerpiece? Whyfore, would he ride out with an erect scribbling pen, goose feather pointed towards the registries of the world? How grating it is, when men are too dim to cloak their own foibles, and make instead a mockery from proper roles. But it was not lost to him how this rhetoric only occupied his mind to leave no room for other, more engulfing thoughts. The sizzling what if he were to know jumped impishly after every two moments. It did not make it easier to bear that if Seymour would know, smell his wife's pleasure on George's coat like a basset, he'd be the last to show it. “ I trust I do not interfere with matters of the state. In fact, I came to see you today on something that weighs no less than anything you folk bring up in the Chamber. Can I skimp on oratory? Briefly put, it is like this: the french ambassador's wife is soiling the good honor of this court, and I think we will all be caught unawares once it spills over. ”

@edwardscymour

[alastrinie]

     “Edward,” Alastrine was surprised to see her husband enter her chambers of his own accord--in the middle of the day, that is. Was it not her that sought him out when sunlight beamed through thick clouds, bombarding into his study, unlocking his door? She had no preference for her purposes. No time of day, no rhyme, no reason.

     Perhaps he was afraid--afraid she would grow faint near a window and, in turn, topple through. Or maybe down a flight of stairs, off her steed, even. And he’d come to see if her head was still, indeed, on her shoulders. She hoped this confounded weakness would cease as her stomach swelled--but, was Edward afraid? The thought was an interesting one. Perhaps a pleasing one. 

     “Merry Saint Valentines, Lord Somerset,” She waved off a nearby lady, near ancient in age, who in turn, bowed, and stalked off, giving Edward a wary look. Alastrine bit back a smile, “You’d do well to avoid Meredith’s alluring gaze, Edward. I need no blood on my hands on such an affectionate holiday.” 

@edwardscymour