“We shall see about that.” She tickled his sides.
He shrieked and squirmed, laughing loudly. “Stop, stop! I surrender!” When she refused to relent, he finally gave up. “Please!”
“All right.” Wrapping her arms around him, she hugged him close and leaned her head against his. He snuggled into her, smiling. “I have not been married as father has said he wishes me to marry for love. I believe he is waiting for me to tell him who I have chosen. It seems he has enough children to marry off for political gain that I do not warrant much notice.” She chuckled. “So, I find myself waiting for a suitor toward whom I feel such adoration.”
“But what if you never find one?” Henri frowned. “You could wait forever.”
“I suppose. Then I would finally relent and pick whoever would marry an old crone like me.”
“A hideous old maid!” He cackled.
“Why, you—” She joined him in the laughter, especially after she began tickling him again. He ran from her to escape and flew out into the hallway. She chased after him, racing down the corridors of their home, weaving around startled-looking servants as she did.
Family. There were worse things one could be saddled with in life.
* * *
Marguerite liftedthe front of her skirts a few inches to walk through the grass as she headed down to the small clearing in the woods just past the line of the palace gardens. She and Leopold had taken to being a bit more out of sight as they grew older, and their practice weapons moved from sticks to wooden swords to metal.
She was still abjectly terrible. Leopold teased her for being all vigor no finesse, and that was true. Honestly, she had long since given up on the hope of wielding a weapon with any modicum of skill. She made her way out to the woods for their training once or twice a fortnight for the excuse of his company.
Her breath was mist in the cold winter air. They trained year-round, if the weather was good enough. At least there was no snow on the ground. She hated stumbling about in a dress in the snow.
As she approached the clearing, she frowned. There was an odd sound coming from the row of trees. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. Like someone chopping wood. It echoed through the trees. As she drew closer, she furrowed her brow.
Yes, Leopold was indeed chopping wood. In a manner of speaking. Her dear friend was standing in the clearing, a broadsword in his hands, hacking at a large oak with so much fury that his shirt was soaked through with sweat.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Bits of wood and bark sprayed off in all directions as he hacked away with the blade. She moved farther into the clearing and sat down on a fallen log that ran along one side, watching him as he worked out…whatever it was he was working out.
She tried to interrupt him in between swings. “Leopol—”
Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Leop—”
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Finally, she gave up and simply shouted. “Leo!”
He dropped the sword, his shoulders going limp as the blade fell into the grass at his feet. He leaned his forearm against the battered, chipped-at tree, and braced his forehead against it. “Leave me be, Marguerite.”
“I see you have found yourself a more suitable sparring partner. I am not sure how I feel about being replaced with a tree, but I think perhaps it does have better form than I. Therefore, I will concede the matter.” She smirked, trying to cheer him up. If even just a little. It was rare that Leopold had fits of temper, and when he did, they were always temporary.
When he turned to look at her, her smile instantly faded. His eyes were red, and tears streaked his cheeks. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, perhaps to send her away or scold her for her teasing, but he seemingly lost the will or could not find the words.
“Oh, Leo…” She reached her arms out to him, calling him over. “Whatever is the matter?”
Tiredly, he shook his head. For a moment, he hesitated, before crossing the clearing toward her. He slumped down onto the ground at her feet and laid his back against her legs. Instantly, she wrapped her arms around him and held him, resting her chin on his shoulder.
For a long time—minutes, perhaps—they sat in silence. Him, quietly crying, occasionally wiping his face with his sleeve, and her, simply holding him and waiting for him to be ready to speak.
When he did, his voice was strained. “Father is forcing me to marry.”
“Well, you have been avoiding it, rushing off to every war and skirmish in the known world.” She kissed his cheek. It tasted of salt. “It is hardly subtle how little you wish to be wed.”
“I—I cannot marry. I simply cannot.” He grimaced.