“If I were you, I’d get on giving him a child,” my father declared.

I blinked at him.

“A son, if you can manage it, so you wouldn’t have the bother of needing to give him another,” he continued. “I heard those Nadirii can magic the sex of a child in the womb. You can ask one of your new friends to cast a spell. Then you can leave him with it and come home.”

Leave?

My husband?

With “it?”

That “it” being my child?

I did not get into that.

I got into something he might understand.

“Father, I am queen.”

“His mother still lives. She can supervise the palace in your stead. She knows how. She’s been doing it for years.”

I put my cup in its saucer and lied, “I think I’m getting a headache.”

“This does not surprise me,” he muttered.

I looked out the window.

Mars was no longer chopping.

He had the ax resting on its head, he was leaning a hand into the end, and he was chatting.

To our servants.

There were servant boys everywhere at Catrame Palace.

Did I see him chat to any of them?

No.

Not once!

Before I looked away, I saw Kyril peer through the window at me and he did this frowning.

Lamentably, my husband saw him do it and he looked over his (bare!) shoulder at me.

Then, without even dipping his chin to acknowledge he had my attention, he turned back to a servant girl and resumed chatting.

Her name was Pegeen.

And she was very comely.

In fact, all the girls my father had employed were young.

And very comely.

“Silence,” my father called my focus, unfortunately for him.

For I’d had enough.

Of him.

Of Mars.

Of marriage.

Of prophecies.

Of beasts.

Of bloody Kyril frowning.

I wanted a fire, a rug, a cup of tea, a book, my wee Piccola, my own company…

And peace.

I set my cup down and stood.

My father looked up at me.

“I’m sorry if you feel this is rude, but much has happened, and in this time where I can unwind before it all starts up again, I’m going to find my book and do just that.”

“You shouldn’t read if you have a headache,” my father advised.

“And you should stand when a queen stands,” I returned.

My father stared up at me in shock.

“And not question what she wishes to do with her time,” I carried on.

He moved to the edge of his seat, saying conciliatorily, “Silence, I can imagine, a new bride, infatuated with her husband, finding it difficult to adjust to his culture’s mores of faithlessness and serial dalliances—”

“Stop speaking,” I hissed.

This time, he blinked in shock.