Lips Like Ice

XXVI

The tears are cold, downright chilly against Lydia's bare skin and she shivers as goose-bumps dance up her spine and across her scalp. She digs her fingernails into his skin, determined to hold on for as long as he needs her, though. And does he ever need her. The Prince wraps one arm around her waist, clutches, clings, nearly crushes the breath out of her, and cradles the back of her skull with the other, tender and large.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the Prince sobs, over and over again. Lydia makes soothing, shushing sounds, runs her hands up and down his neck and spine, waiting, just waiting.

Wherever it is that the Prince is going (both of them? Please let it be both of them) he certainly has no joy in being sent. How horrible is it going to be? Lydia wonders. How horrible can it possibly... no, never mind. I've never seen him cry before. This has to be bad.

When the shaking finally stops, when the tears peter out, the Prince sits back on his heels and presses one long, dry, sad kiss against Lydia's mouth. She brushes his hair back from his face, smoothing it down, petting it flat again. He grabs her wrists, kisses each palm, the underside where her veins shine blue through translucent skin that hasn't seen the sun in months.

"What's going on?" she finally whispers, loathe to break the heavy, miserable silence, but too curious to hold the question back any more.

The Prince lurches to his feet, pulls her alongside him to the fireplace and, large hands wrapped around her waist, lifts her like a doll and sets her into one of the chairs. The ever present collection of decanters is on the hearth, and he takes down the one filled with golden liquid, the one that shines like glitter and sequins when it catches the lamplight. He fills two of the tumblers, and sets one in Lydia's hands. She has to hold it between them both, it's just slightly too large for one.

He flops down into the seat across from her, and sips. Lydia follows suit. It tastes of honey and chocolate and oranges, but not thick or overly sweet. It fizzes against her tongue, and there is a bite to the aftertaste, like ginger and wasabi. It's certainly one of the oddest flavor combinations she's been subjected to here, but it's not really bad once she's has a few sips.

Eventually, when half his tumbler is empty, the Prince stops staring at the cold hearth and turns purple-rimmed eyes to her. His lids are swollen, his nose indigo from the crying, and he pinches the bridge like it's left him with a headache. It probably has.

"What's happening?" Lydia tries again.

She expects silence, and instead the Prince licks his lips, takes a breath, opens his mouth, then clicks it shut again. He takes a drink, clears his throat, takes another breath, and says, "I've been sold."

"You what?" Lydia squawks, before she even registers that she's done so. Her hands tighten on the tumbler, her nails scratching against the crystal hard enough to make it shriek a little.

"I've been sold," he repeats, spitting the last word, closing his teeth hard on the final consent.

"I..." Lydia says, swallowing hard and trying to keep her breathing even. "I don't understand. Like... like a slave?"

"Like a useless second son!" the Prince roars, and he is on his feet again, snarling and spitting. He hurls his tumbler at the hearth and it shatters spectacularly against the back of the fireplace, glass bursting in every direction.

Lydia turns her face away, raises an arm to protect her eyes, but none of the glass travels that far. She's fine. The Prince plucks her tumbler from her hands, where her surprise has made her nearly drop it, and finishes off what's left of her liquor in one long, hard swallow. He pitches this tumbler at the hearth too, and this time Lydia doesn't flinch when it blooms like a deadly firework against the stone.