Lips Like Ice

V

Lydia has very little talent in domestic skills, and even less practice, that she can recall. It is obvious enough that her fingers have absolutely no muscle memory for holding a needle. Still, she manages to fumble arms and head holes into the pillowcase, and she finds a bit of discarded ribbon to act as a belt. In the bedroom there is a wardrobe that she assumes holds the Prince's clothing, but the doors are nearly too heavy for her to yank open, and all the clothes large enough to smother her. Pillowcase dresses will do until the tailor drops off whatever it is that the Prince has or-dered for her.

When the Prince returns that night, carrying several trays of food very much like last night's offering, he doesn't have to bully her into eating. When she thinks about it, it makes sense that she not starve herself. If she does ever manage to escape, or to convince the Prince to let her go, she'll need her strength to do so. And so the leftovers from last night had made their way into her belly over the course of the day.

Instead of curling over his desk all evening, the Prince pulls several cushions down from the sofa and makes a nest for himself before the fire. In one hand he holds a book that Lydia can't read, and with the other he sips wine. He offers none of the wine to Lydia, and plucks bite-sized morsels from his plate and pops them in his mouth.

He ignores Lydia so thoroughly that she is tempted to kick his knee, or walk over to the desk and upend his inkwell all over his papers. To be tormented is one thing, but then to be tormented, punished, forced to obey, and then abandoned all day and ignored all evening is too much.

He refuses to consider freeing her, and then doesn't act as if he even wants her there! To be both a prisoner and superfluous is too enraging for Lydia to bear.

Adding to this anger, this resentment, is the terrified anticipation of his threat to bed her. Each long moment in which he doesn't reach for her, doesn't bear her down into the rug and force her to submit, doesn't request that she come to him, is one moment closer to the time when he does. She can't stand it, she can't stand not knowing, she can't stand sitting in anticipation and fear, torn between the desire to lash out, to hurt, to scream, to tremble, to hide, to cower, or to beg him not to, to have mercy.

She sits still and quiet beside the hearth where she was crouched when he first returned to his rooms. She hopes that he will forget his promise, that if she remains small she will remain invisible—and at the same time, all she wants is for him to pay attention to her, to tell her what is going to happen next, to be able to anticipate and dodge his next action. And yet if she calls attention to herself, will he just ignore her further, or will he set aside his book and engage in that very thing which she fears?

To stay quiet? To rage?

What should she do?

The indecision, the multitude of choice, is paralyzing.

In the end it is decided for her. The Prince lets out a lusty sigh and drops his book just low enough to glare at her over its pages.

"Your extreme agitation is distracting," the Prince says. "Come here."

"No," Lydia blurts immediately, unthinkingly, and then stiffens in fear. Will he punish her again?

Instead of the orchestra-conducting hand motion, he simply reaches out, grasps her by the arm, and sprawls her in his lap. Lydia sucks in a breath of terror, the musky-sweet scent of him this close a horrific reality. But he does not untie his breeches or slide his hand up under her pillowcase. Instead he rearranges her into a small, comfortable ball on his hip, her head on his navel, and strokes his fingers through her hair.

Across her scalp, down her neck, over her side and hip, then off her body and back up to her head. Over and over. He returns his eyes to the book and Lydia realizes with a jolt of resentment and shame that he is petting her. Like a house cat.