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@thenxghtwemxt
written by c. an @theopulenthq dependent roleplay blog.
King Elias Hatzfeld of Germany (Theo James FC) - 38, He/Him
Spy Lady Midori Yamoto of Japan (Sonoya Mizuno) - 34, She/Her
Crown Prince Blair Stuart of Scotland (Jordan Calloway) - 34, He/Him
ā why,Ā ofĀ course.Ā ā otherĀ thanĀ hisĀ brothers, he was confident that no one could match, never surpass, his skills when it came to social gatherings - be it integrating with the crowd, a chameleon cloaked in charm, or finding an advantageous position to drink and observe.Ā Ā ā and since i'm a good brother, āĀ Ā he poured some wine from the bottle he'd grabbed into a goblet and passed it to elias. stefan's chuckle was accompanied by a small scoff.Ā Ā ā no place will ever compare to our schloss. āĀ Ā german gold meant there was no reason to settle for anything less than the best. Ā ā but this place is acceptable. ā
"Very generous of you." He thinks out loud, accepting the goblet in hand. Except, well, Stefan hasn't ever been generous. Fortunately, wine is a small fee, a discretionary act of generosity. Taking a tepid sip, Elias thinks out loud; "Tell that to my wife." Elias says, with a snort. "To her, home accounts for more than German splendor." Hypocritical of him to say, but regardless. "God help me." Marriage doesn't become Elias, and to his brother's credit, Stefan has the foresight to avoid it like a plague. "Anything fun to report?"
How many kings and queens, long gone, have sat where they now did? Steam rising around them, blurring their surroundings as alliances and treaties were forged and broken, all within these stone walls? With a smile faint enough to barely register on their face, Cailean rested their head on the brink of the bath, the curls at the nape of their neck caught in the water. They could feel Eliasā eyes on them, and a wave of shame prickled down their spine. Elias had seen them in a way few had, not since-Ā
No, they couldnāt think of Abby or the night with Elias. Cailean raised their head to meet his eyes. No matter how deeply it stung, they would not let the regret of using their friend show. āThat is the difference between us, old friend.ā The mask of indifference fell back into place. To survive this they needed to think straight and not let their emotions cloud their judgment. āI am well aware of my sins, but I refuse to hide them behind the crown, no matter how bloody they are.ā Perhaps they were being too cruel, but it seemed the role of this vicious, rebellious beast fit them too well. āNow tell me, what has been happening in your life since we last saw each other? That sweet wife of yours still hasnāt gotten sick and tired of you?āĀ
There's a crack in his facade, visible just long enough to give him away. Oh, he could play the game of seductive, double-entendres until they were both red in the face and hard in the shaft. Elias might even enjoy it. Lord knows he enjoys what's unorthodox and difficult. But it's the use of friend that makes him bristle. Because before rebellions and one night stands... Isn't that what he considered Cailean? A friend?
"You've made it abundantly clear. We are not friends." He says, voice low and seemingly unperturbed. If they wanted to play a game of stony faces, then Elias would play. Like in bed; wasn't it always about who blinked first? "No," he snorts, in agreement. "You do not hide behind a crown. You hide behind a cause. The ends justifying the means, and all that." So instead, he poses a different question.
"Did it?" Elias asks, bold and curious, perhaps looking for comfort. He's an ambitious, son of a bitch too. Maybe if Cailean could have it ring true, that their egregious actions were worth the fight, he would let it go. Alas...
"My sweet wife is just that. A companion to warm my bed, break my fast with." Not that Elias was much for that life himself. But it's said as a barbed point, directly at Cailean's heart. "I suspect in your rise, that aspect of your life has fallen. Fast."
"Of course darling, you have my complete loyalty," she sounds convincing, so convincing any observer would believe they were a happily married couple. So convincing, yet she knew Elias would hear the bitterness that underpinned her words. "but you are not the only person wandering these halls. I doubt you are the only one interested in snooping."
Perhaps this was the real issue - Antonia had never dreamed of love, had not written in a diary of a dream man. She had wanted power, to be more than a spare. She fantasized about great sex and a strong alliance. She would not trade what she had for a powerless arrangement, even with someone she could love and trust.
"Such a pity, you were perfect in every other sense." Her tone remained dry and sarcastic. "Rather optimistic of you Elias, young you may be - but a long life is not guaranteed."
She hates the shiver in her spine at his words. This would all be so much easier if he wasn't able to affect her in this way. The moment he lowered his voice, every time he looked at her with his hooded eyes, everything that normally frustrated her about him suddenly aroused her.
"Not as creative as some." She conceded unable to stop her eyes from roaming. "Is that what you've been doing? Keeping me... satisfied in the hopes my desire will overpower any murderous thoughts I may have."
"Is there a treasure trove of secrets to find?" He asks, diverting his thoughts on loyalty and trust. It's near impossible to come by, that much he's learned. It's the Hatzfeld way; everything is a transaction, a deal, or a convenience. A lesson that Elias struggled with, more than either one of his brothers. But he repeats it like a saving grace, ensuring Antonia never gets too close.
Because theirs may not be a love match, or even a happy union. Yet there's no denying her talent for getting under his skin and loosening his inhibitions.
"As are you. The perfect wife - beautiful, intelligent, sweet..." Elias can't resist but snort at the last descriptor, a devilish glint in his eye. Anyone who believes his Queen to be a doe in the woods has no idea what she's capable of. "As for the tenure of my life, rest assured - us Germans know how to keep our head." While many of Europe's strongholds teetered under rebellion and dispute. Germany remains as it always was; safe and moneyed.
Coming up to a pause, his fist loosens. Dark eyes roaming the familiar slope of her chin, the curve of her waist. She may be madness. But she's also a woman whose very scent makes his mad. The very sound of her voice takes him to places a decent King would not go, at least not in a public corridor.
"I'm told it's the only way a husband survives marriage. Satisfy or perish." Fingers twist along her curls, tracing her clavicle in thought. "You must admit - it is the one thing we share. Our singular talent."
musclesĀ tensedĀ instinctuallyĀ whenĀ hisĀ armsĀ unexpectedly embraced her. however, only a few seconds passed before an exasperated but fond smile tugged at her lips, and mal returned the hug before stepping back.Ā Ā ā hello, blair. āĀ Ā her worry for him quieted upon seeing him in good spirits, even if it would only last during the ball; she hoped not. reality prevented the hope from growing too loud. too much had happened to both of their nations for sorrow to not still linger, for wounds to not still be healing.Ā Ā ā that's . . . good. āĀ Ā malaika sighed.Ā Ā ā what do you recommend to eat? i haven't sampled any of the dishes yet. ā
"Doing well?" Even when she pulls back, Blair takes care to look. Truly look. Because Malaika may be a mythic force, a hero for Ethiopia's books. She may be aloof to some, guarded to most. But Blair also knows she's a woman, who lost her husband and lays alone in the evening. Sighing, he maintains his spirit, ushering her towards the table. "The jamon serrano is just - perfect. If I could shuttle it back to Southern Scotland." He laments, deciding to prepare the Queen a plate. "We simply boil and salt everything." Potatoes, mostly. Shaking his head, he offers a coy smile; "Now, for Ethiopia. I suspect it's food to be missed."
Eyes closed, his sight surrendered to the mighty sun, as he breathes, he marvels the way in which the salt on the air burns his nose and rests heavily in his lungs; if Halil tried hard enough, he could feel the chill of tile against his bare feet as he rose from his silken sheets to be greeted by the shimmering wonder of the Bosphorus just outside the tall, white fences of DolmabahƧe Palace in the early morning. There, the only threat to them was heavy rain and perhaps, an ill-tempered street cat. A gentle reminder from his guard breaks him from his moment of savour and he begins again toward the docks. Had he been lost in thought, Halil might not have heard the polite, seemingly hesitant interjection from the young prince. Blue eyes fall fondly on him, a nod follows and then an immediate scowl as Blair's eyes do not meet his. Although his breath is empathetic, the sultan reaches out, "Look at me," He instructs, taking the prince's face into his hands, his touch light. "You needn't thank me, my friend, Turkey will come to the aid of anyone in turmoil as long as I rule. If a nation such as ours did not share our abundance with others, it would be in vain, no? Alas, you're welcome, young prince, I can't imagine how troubling your time has been nor do I ever wish to."
He is a large man, with broad shoulders and wide hands. But Blair attempts to make himself small and amenable. Isn't that the exercise he's done for months since the loss of his homeland? Making himself small to fit, to adjust, to make penance to those he failed? But everything said and thought about the Sultan is proven true. The ruler suffers no fools, and takes nothing but the most forthright of appearances.
"It seems many are comfortable with complicity." He echoes against Halil's touch, and there's something to be said for that moment of affection. The tension releases itself from his shoulders, dark eyes softening at the kind words. "But I have never been. This world - it can be hideous." And he only had eyes for beauty. "You gave me hope, once more. That there is a kinder way forward." Lifting a hand, he places a brief squeeze against the Sultan's touch. "My family is strong. They give me strength, to move forward. To do all I can." It feels as if he's in a confessional, instead of the company of a great Sultan. "One day, should you need it. Know that the Stuart's are forever in your debt."
Their smile had morphed into something different; it was a grin, feral like a wolf that had cornered its prey, knowing the kill was theirs. Cailean tore a piece of roasted chicken from the bone and popped it in their mouth, but it wasn't enough. Their stomach still growled. 'I see you have grown a spine since we last spoke?' Adorable. Fighting the urge to finish everything on their plate before licking it clean, they put it down. They refused to let any Stuart, even the prince, see them hungry and enjoying anything provided by a monarch. 'I think we both know what people are saying about you.' One only had to step outside the gates of the castle to hear the whispers of the foolish crown prince. 'But I disagree with it. You're not stupid. You knew exactly what you were doing when you helped me. You knew the cost but were still willing to sacrifice your family.' Their eyes were honed in on him, waiting for any sign of cracks in his facade. 'Maybe you even agree with me, and oh, you hate that.'
He watches as Cailean takes a bite, every movement of their jaw as a quiet jab to the Prince's recollection. Soft, foolish Prince. No one in the family faulted Blair. The Stuart's love runs too deep, and they lauded his life over losing each other. And so his guilt remains unpunished. There is something oddly satisfying about being dealt Cailean's cruel blows. At least then, it is slow work to be exonerated. "I know what they say." Because Blair listens. The usurper? "Do you?" Didn't he and the rebels laud themselves on being 'for the people?' But if they were, would Scotland have suffered the way it did. "You know nothing of me, or my family." It's the most he can say, without admitting the truth. Blair truly was that foolish - believing that cooperation could help the family cause. Instead, he swallows, hard. "As for your beliefs--" He doesn't do Cailean the honor of calling it politics. "I believe in Scotland, her people. The proper way. I will never believe in your cruelty."
"they refuse to see the whole scene before themāonly that which angers them." not always one to bluster, suzume allows her voice to carry. when a straggler from the audience glares in her direction, she barely hides the roll of her eyes, directed at her latest foe and midori's cheekiness in equal measure, "careful, cousin. so much false humility will only make you lose face." the corners of her lips quiver upward for but a fraction of a second, undetectable with the blink of an eye. it's the metaphorical sort of face she speaks of, that which is one's own and yet is others' simultaneously. a fixation of the advisor's for as long as she can remember, "we must flush them out first, be certain about our quarry. some of the council is too eager for bloodsport as it is." and legitimizing the rebels' cause is the last thing japan needs. her expression hardens.
"Outrage is a powerful thing." She's apt to remind, a rueful prod at her cousin. A glance at the people; astounded and confused, uncertain how deep the insult lays. Sighing, she turns away from the sight. "We've won. At great cost, but we did that. Losing face aside--" a reference back to Suzume's earlier words, said with a tight-lipped smile that Midori knows to be familial humor.
"There's a chance we'll get more done with honey, instead of vinegar." Although the play makes it clear where Japan's politics lean, Midori is more than confident she can deliver. The 'black sheep' of the family, who wouldn't believe she's amenable to anyone and anything worth listening to? "You work on the council. I'll flush them out. I've made a few new friends since the reckoning..." Some potentially dangerous, but she's keeping with it for now. "And I can find our way in."
Does it please her? The thought of what they may find in her childhood rooms is more uncomfortable than she expected. "It would certainly be clever of them. I wouldn't risk leaving any of my children's secrets lying around, particularly not with so many foreign powers within my walls." What did she hope to find? A room stripped bare would mean her secrets were safe, but what would it say about how easily her family let her go?
"Do not worry love," her voice took on a softer tone as they passed a guard stationed outside their chambers. It was in complete opposition to her icy expression. "I am sure I can remember much of it. Dear diary, one day I shall marry a king. He will be handsome and brilliant and powerful, and (if I am really lucky) he'll be far older than I and I'll only have to bear his presence for a few years..." Antonia could not keep the teasing smirk off her face as she spoke. "Much the same as any young women's diary."
She had spent most of their marriage in his home, fully aware that everyone around them was loyal to him, unsure if there was anyone she could trust. Now the roles were reversed. "Not in your sleep - that would be too obvious. I would be right at the top of a very short list of suspects. I need more than a pretty face, and my past lovers are far more creative than that. A loose railing at a boat parade, or a rogue bull perhaps? Enough to keep you constantly on your toes." She was joking of course, mostly.
"It's clever, yes. But we aren't another foreign power." A crooked smile, caught in the sardonic nature of it. "We are family now, aren't we?" Elias says, voice bubbling with warmth and kindness. He's good at that - playing the malevolent and heroic King. Always has been; his pretty smiles and courage with a sword slotted him well into a place of innocence. Alas, Antonia reads him too well, and none of his typical tricks fool her into trusting him.
Which, incidentally, makes him trust her less. Be that as it may...
"I am not old." He argues, because surely that's the only part of his wife's list that he hasn't ticked off. "I am a young thirty-eight." Middle-aged, by many standards. But Elias stands by it, if only to keep from feeling antiquated. Besides, it's young for a King. And surely the crown supersedes anything else. "So, the joke's on you - I shall live a long life. You're welcome."
"Are they?" He is the jealous type, of course. How much did it have to do with Antonia, versus his own ego? The jury's out. Still... "Are they as creative in bed?" He asks thickly, head canted down so only she can hear. They have their issues - trust, uncertainty, even anger. But from the moment she arrived in Germany, it is the one area they thrive in. "Surely that alone would keep me from an untimely demise."
Of course Ruby had all ten fingers deeply rooted in the betting pool - playing sides && turning tricks, pocketing the profits, and devising a series of invisible fees that turned to a heavy clatter of coin in his satchel pinned under his clothes, to his side. A pretty penny earned already, and not a single one of the matadors had a chance to win yet. " I bet on them both, of course. " Ruby grinned, eyebrows raising as he watched the preparations with his brother. He wished, just nearly, to jump the fence && join in on the fun. " Either way, I will see a profit, but based on the pool size, red seems to be the fan favorite today. Seems a bit of an advantage, doesn't it? Red to anger the bull, to make him misbehave. " A hand came to smooth gently against the ret patterned vest Ruby himself wore, as if finding the comedic humor in such a thing.
"Of course." Elias echoes, because what is the youngest Hatzfeld if not enterprising? He supposed the three of them were, by nature. Reared by a materialistic mother and a money-hungry father. Ruby, however... Well, his talents thrived in dishonesty. "And where will you put that profit to work? The Mughal's spice trade? Into one of Stefan's horses?" It's a coy word as any, because Elias already has a hunch. "No," he shakes his head, in consideration. "Not enough risk for my little brother." It's said, while staring down at the bright red vest. "Whatever it is... Maybe we mix in some of the crown's profit?" Laundered in a mix of Reuben's gambling profits, it would come out clean. Isn't that all Elias was after? Clean hands, shining gold? "You'll get your cut." Elias adds, before he can ask.
@succiducus | Halil and Blair, The Royal Boat Parade and Spectacle
He's no stranger to the game of politics and power. Although he is a poor player, Blair was raised with it the same way others breathe in air. Belief is what keeps him going, even after the worst hits his home country of Scotland. That, and a belief that not all goodness is lost. He need only look at the Abdul's, with their generosity and kindness. Whereas the world played to win, the Turkish royals played to help. As both the people's Prince and a man of integrity; Blair cannot help but marvel when he sees the Sultan stride towards the dock.
"Your Highness." The prince interjects politely. "A moment?" Waiting until it's given, he adjusts in his stance. "We do not know each other well. But you know my Queen, my sister." Clearing his throat, he lowers his eyes in respect to Halil. "However, I would remiss not to say - thank you. For all your kingdom has done, in aid to Scotland through its... Troubling time."
Their steps always seemed to meet when they might be better off not - glances found in darkened halls with shadows of doubt, always toeing the line between where they should be versus where they were. Two vessels that haunted Japan's halls, and orbited around the young Emperor. Su-Jin had been all but raised on the island, a fixture of the palace like a pillar itself, and always watching.
Yet, never had he shaken the explorative gaze of the woman. Lips twitched in a smile as he extended out the olive branch. " All yours. " he nodded slowly, pulling a second from the folds of his fabrics to light for himself. " It's been a little difficult to enjoy the performance, when so many seem keen to take offense. Do you think- this would reflect poorly on the nation's motivations? " The question was posed lightly, easily, like it was a mere informal topic to discuss. What would it matter to him, anyhow - Su-Jin was there on behalf of Korea, the watchful eye in the corner, the listening ear to remember has yet to state any side, at least with his own two lips.
She mumbles her thanks, taking the rolled tobacco between her fingers. Going so far as to lean forward, letting Su-Jin's lit cigarette aid her own. They always do this. Sing and dance and obfuscate. Anything, except ever answer anything outright. It's good to know some things never change. "I think the flaw is that I'm not the star." She thinks, with a coy puff. "The Emperor loved my rendition of the play." A reminder - Su-Jin may have been the late Empress' most trusted. But in Kaito's court? Midori is his right hand, his ever reliable.
It shouldn't matter, childhood envy is just that. And yet...
"Why?" It's her turn to prod. "Has it affected your view of us? What will you report back to your rulers?" She knows that Su-Jin will give no answer. Too tight lipped and aloof to ever give in, but Midori isn't looking for words. She's searching his eyes, anticipating his moods.
brownĀ eyesĀ softenedĀ andĀ lipsĀ curvedĀ upwards. if anyone would go to the effort of not only selecting a flower but weaving it into an accessory that could adorn her wrist it would be blair stuart. he almost made the game too easy.Ā Ā ā it's not corny. it's sweet, āĀ Ā she reassured,Ā Ā ā and i would be honored to wear it. āĀ Ā her eyes never left his; eyes that were so open. she should find it pitiful, she did, but the thought didn't carry as much expected venom. cora mentally shoved it aside. instead, her free hand reached out for his, entwining their fingers.Ā Ā ā so long as i can share at least the majority of the dances with you then tonight will be very special. ā
Blair emits a low hum of appreciation, watching with giddy intent when the flowers sit prettily against her wrist. "You look perfect." She always does - even when she's tired, or bored, or cross. It's her face that he imagined in the thick of it. When Edinburgh fell to rebels, during his capture in the hands of those very rebels. Cora is heart and home, and it's undeniable that he laughs. "Most?!" He asks, incredulous. "Sweetheart, I shan't leave your side. I've adored you too long to play coy now." Life and death does that to a man, though in Blair's estimation, he would be this forthright even before Scotland's division. "I even practiced."
Cailean allowed their robe, weaved from cotton, without hesitation and shame, to fall off of their shoulders, revealing bare skin. Their body served as a map, guiding its viewers between the violence of their life. From a deep red scar across their bicep, a reminder of the rebellion, to white scratches from battles forgotten by most. Their eyes wandered to the men emerging from the water, drops glistening on their skin as if they had been kissed by a goddess, leaving trails of diamonds. Cailean suppressed the naive urge to cover themself, to hide from their gazes. They knew they were not as beautiful as them. There was nothing soft about them. Their body, after all, was created for survival, not beauty.Ā
A curse soft as a song uttered in their mother's tongue escaped their lips when they heard their name. 'Elias.' Of course, he was there. Had he been waiting to see if they would arrive? 'I never enter a bath armed.' They stepped into the water across from the king, its warmth like an embrace from an old friend. 'It defies the purpose of the bathhouse, does it not?' They gestured around the room. 'Here, we are all equal. I assume you have no hidden weapons, either?' They made no attempt to hide their eyes roaming over his body before they laughed, their laugh sharp, perhaps too sharp. 'Oh, is that why you're here? Darling, the water may be nice, but it's not miraculous. It will not resolve you from your sins.'
They made for an unlikely friendship. Forged through tenuous, European alliances - Elias took to Cailean's company by sheer likeness. Naturally athletic, and with the sort of smirk that could start a pub fight. Finding a friend like Cailean made for many rowsing nights and dramatic stories. They were young once, weren't they? Riding horses, starting fist fights... Before the crown, before Cailean's treachery. Now, he stares upon a body Elias once knew intimately.
He sees nothing but a shell, and their eyes betray what their cool response does not.
"Rare is a place where all people are equal." He points out, as a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. "Even rarer where anyone is truly disarmed." Cailean proved that themselves. Each vulnerable conversation, each mark of friendship... All tools in the rebel leader's toolkit. "Ha!" A boisterous laugh, as Elias sinks further into the hot water. "Shall we list each one of our sins?" It's his turn to play the offensive, to execute a blow. Leveled eyes against Caliean's deep blues; "I guarantee your list is longer than mine."
š°š¹š¼šš²š± šššŗššš¾š āŗāŗ blair stuart , @thenxghtwemxt where: the welcome ball
withĀ soĀ manyĀ unfamiliarĀ facesĀ inĀ the ballroom, mal eventually sought out familiar, trusted ones after partaking in a handful of other conversations. she held out one of the glasses of wine in her hand to the scottish prince and offered him a slight smile. its size didn't negate that it was one of the few this eve not born out of politeness alone.Ā Ā ā remember to remain alert even tonight, āĀ Ā she quietly said. the spanish were keeping the wine flowing and mood high, but glamor wouldn't prevent trouble from brewing if it wished.
Scots were impassioned, proud, and most of all - loud. Even a divided nation like theirs finds its spirit with an open cask of wine, and Blair doesn't let sobering reality get in the way of fun. They will have their problems tomorrow. Tonight? He's halfway to find a server for a fresh glass, when the Ethiopian Queen brings him to a pause. "Mal!" Casual, informal -- it's been too long, and Blair wastes no time to hug the regent. What? He's a warm-blooded Scot, he's a hugger by nature. "Hmm?" His ears pique. "Yes, I am. Very much so." Blair nods, like a young man being schooled. "I have eyes on all good food and drink." It's not what she means, but well... Isn't that what he means, in turn?
theĀ chuckleĀ escapedĀ hisĀ lipsĀ beforeĀ he could stop it. it was mostly due to midori's performance than the script's words. a grand work of literature it was not. how could it be when so many voices had sought to pull it in different directions.Ā Ā ā that bad? āĀ Ā voice revealed a small spark of worry.Ā Ā ā i advocated for some more subtly while still maintaining the message, but this was the version all involved would agree to. āĀ Ā and kaito suspected some wished the language was harsher. he couldn't fully fault them when the rebels had caused irreversible harm, but honoring his parents and the japanese people who'd given their lives defending the kingdom had been his highest priority.
"Just about... Worse than those existential French plays I've had to endure. But better than those odd, avant-garde German iterations." And Midori's had to endure quite a few, during her stints in Europe. It's the only way she knew how to serve Kaito and his cause. Neither brilliant with a sword like the Emperor, or clever with strategy like her cousin. Midori defaults to the trade of people and secrets. Except, well... Kaito's heart has never been much of a secret from her, has it? With a sympathetic smile, she wonders out loud; "There's nothing subtle about what's been lost." They may find fault in the play, but it's intent? "It'll do the people some good to reflect on what's been lost." And maybe it'll do you good, too... She thinks, said as much through the squeeze of his hand.
What did you talk about with a man who put you on edge every time he entered to room? Who has the ability to sap any sense of ease away from you. The weather - too obviously benign? Royal business - too dangerous, particularly when you were keeping secrets? Tales of home. That was often safest. It hadn't occurred to her that one day he would be in her space, able to see the home she had barely processed returning to. A man she could barely stand in a home she was not sure she missed.
Elias was such a a beautiful man. She had thought that since the moment she first saw him. She had traced the lines of his face once, when they lay together, exploring every sharp edge and plane. Even then, she has not been able to look him in the eye. It had been a moment in time which shattered the second one of them spoke.
"You may be disappointed." She told him, standing to lead the way. Her old rooms were towards the other end of the palace, a long walk to try and prepare herself. "My parents likely allowed the royal decorators free reign the day I left." She could only hope. "My delightful temperament may remain a mystery to you."
"And does that please you?" Elias asks, matching her stride. Never one to walk forward, or fall behind. Antonia moves with purpose, chooses her words carefully, and gives as good as she gets. It's an attitude that can only be described as... Unbearably akin to him. "Ensure they hide your diaries, detailing your hopes and dreams?" It's meant as a barbed comment. The back-and-forth that's become customary to their marriage.
But he would be remiss not to admit, it's also curiosity. In this home, where his new Spanish allies reign supreme. Seemingly neutral, yet nothing about his wife has ever been so...
"A woman of many mysteries." He echoes, because what else is she if not that? A stranger who provokes? A lover that makes his toes curl and eyes water? Everything about their marriage is a contradiction, the sort of relationship that would only work for a Hatzfeld. "Any past lovers I should know about? Anyone gearing up to murder me on my sleep?" Pausing, he adds; "Present company excluded."
