Broken Dove (Fantasyland 4)

“Lady Ulfr?” he said in a weighty tone that I didn’t quite understand but I also didn’t think boded well. And I didn’t think this boded well not because I looked exactly like the no-longer-with-us Lady Ulfr but for another reason. I just didn’t know what that reason was.

“Lady Ulfr,” Apollo repeated in a firm way that brooked no return questioning.

“I had…well,”—the man threw both hands out—“I’d heard that a cousin of Ilsa’s was journeying to Karsvall from the Vale but…but…” His eyes came back to me. They were wide and assessing in a way that made me feel uncomfortable even as he finished, “This is indeed good news.”

Good news?

“It is,” Apollo agreed and the man looked back at him.

“For you, my man.” He looked again at me. “And for you, madam.” He then lifted his hand in a flourish toward his head and gave me a short bow.

I didn’t know what to do with that so when he straightened, I inclined my head.

He held out his hand, palm up, and murmured, “It is surely a pleasure to meet you, Madeleine, Lady Ulfr.”

I placed my fingers in his and replied, “And you, sir.”

His fingers wrapped around mine for a short squeeze then he let me go.

Thankfully, the waiter showed at that point with our appetizers.

“Ulfr.” Danforth clapped Apollo on the back and it was a wonder Apollo’s shoulder didn’t jerk forward at the strength of the blow. “I’ll leave you to your meal, your lady and your”—he glanced meaningfully at the champagne—“celebrations.”

“My gratitude,” Apollo replied, his words short, his tone tight.

The man turned to me. “Pleasure.”

“Yes,” I agreed, feeling weird about what was happening and stupid because I had no clue how to act in this situation as “Lady Ulfr.”

He swept away and Apollo sat down as the waiter set our plates in front of us.

And as Apollo sat, he muttered, “Bloody hell.”

The waiter bowed and moved away and I leaned in immediately.

“What was that?” I asked in a low voice.

Apollo moved his angry gaze that was directed to his plate to me and he rearranged his features instantly.

He was hiding something.

Not good.

“I’ll explain later, dove,” he murmured.

Oh no. He wasn’t getting to me with that sweet, lovely “dove” business.

“Apollo, what was that?” I repeated.

His eyes grew intense on mine and he also repeated, “I’ll explain later, Maddie.”

Telling myself he was not Pol, not Pol, not Pol, I still couldn’t stop myself from thinking about a Pol who dealt drugs for a living and thus kept a variety of things from me. Not that I wanted to know, but it still didn’t feel nice, as secrets never did.

A Pol that decided what house we lived in without much input from me (as in, none). A Pol who also decided what car I would drive, ditto the input. And with this kind of thing I could go on (and on).

And he was a Pol who had a variety of things on his mind, stressors in his life (seeing as he was a drug dealer, one high up the food chain, but one nonetheless) and he didn’t share those concerns with me through anything but his fists.

Apollo was not Pol.

But I’d learned through Pol that I didn’t like things kept from me.

I would not want to know Pol’s dealings. What I did know, I didn’t like. What I did know was another reason to leave him. And he knew that. So he didn’t give it to me outright and in the end, he just didn’t give me anything but good sex and bad times.

And maybe he didn’t because he knew if it was out in the open, I’d betray him to the police. Or I’d hate him and do it for more reasons other than the fact that he made me keep secrets too. Secrets that I detested. The biggest one being that I lived in fear of him, and every second of every day I had to live a lie and hide that.

But that was moot now.

I understood Apollo was not Pol.

But I wasn’t going to start a relationship with a man who held anything back from me.

I leaned deeper into the table and enunciated clearly, “Apollo…what…was…that?”

He studied me, he did it for a long time and he did it with conflicted eyes.

Then he made his decision.

And for some reason, his decision at that very second meant everything to me.

Absolutely everything.

Because I knew, if he made the wrong one, the damage would be irrevocable.

“In this country,” he began slowly, and when he did, I knew he’d made the right one so I pulled in a soft, relieved breath. “At times, it is customary, when a man is unattached, usually widowed, for him to take a wife who has been the same. This could, of course, be a natural coupling where they meet, find each other agreeable, and wed. Other times, a man will take this wife, a relative not of blood, say, his cousin’s widowed bride…”

He hesitated. I braced and I was glad I did when he carried on.

“Or a relation of his dead wife, in order to provide her a home the likes to which she has become accustomed. It happens mostly only amongst those who are members of a House and it happens with women who sometimes have children, but also if she is alone, or perhaps a man who has children and thus they have no mother. And it usually happens in order that the female, who is unlikely to be able to provide herself with an income, is able to live amongst those of her own in comfort and with protection.”

I let out my breath in a whoosh, having a feeling I knew where this was going and not sure how I felt about it.

“In any case, amongst the Houses, where a man intends to take a woman as wife, if that intention is understood and agreed between the parties, that union being inevitable, prior to that, she will begin to be addressed as a lady of that House. In this case,”—he held my eyes—“you being addressed as Lady Ulfr.”

Yes, I knew where it was going.

“And who in your House am I marrying?” I asked instantly.

“Me,” he replied just as instantly.

I stared at him for long moments.

He let me.

Then I stated, “So you just told that man we’re engaged.”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

Holy cow!

“Are we engaged?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered immediately and decisively.

I sucked in a sharp breath and on the exhale, noted, “I think this is pretty much the definition of moving too fast, Apollo.”