Saving the Immortal

Chapter Seven: The Real Laugh

I woke to an empty chamber.

The fire had burned low overnight, and the side of the bed where Ruselon had lain was cold, the sheets undisturbed in a manner that suggested he had risen some hours before I stirred. I sat up slowly, glancing toward the terrace doors, half expecting to find him standing there as he had the previous evening, but the garden beyond stood empty save for the fountain's steady murmur.

I dressed with the help of a maid whose name I had not yet learned properly — Bess, I believed she had said, though I resolved to confirm it before the day's end — and took breakfast alone in the smaller dining room, having no particular wish to encounter Caspian, Fennick, or Marrow's wives so early in the morning.

Ruselon did not appear.

I did not know whether to be concerned or relieved, and found myself, somewhat to my own irritation, checking the doorway more often than the situation strictly warranted.

By midday he had still not returned, and by early afternoon, having exhausted the small entertainments available to me within our quarters — a collection of books whose titles I did not recognize, a needlework basket I had no genuine interest in — I found myself drawn once more toward the garden.

It truly was extraordinary in daylight.

The roses I had admired the previous evening revealed themselves fully under the sun, their unusual colors even more striking against the black stone walls that enclosed the space, and I wandered the paths slowly, trailing my fingers along petals that felt softer than anything I had touched before.

At the garden's far end, half-hidden beneath a canopy of climbing vines, I discovered a swing — simple, wooden, suspended from an ancient oak whose branches stretched wide enough to shade half the garden beneath it. It seemed an odd, almost tender addition to such an otherwise formal space, and I found myself wondering, briefly, whether Ruselon's mother had once used it herself, whether this small piece of the garden had been built for her particular joy rather than any grander design.

I sat upon it.

The wood held my weight without complaint, and I pushed off gently with my feet, letting the swing carry me in slow, easy arcs beneath the dappled shade, the sun warm against my face for the first time since arriving at this strange, beautiful, sorrowful palace.

I closed my eyes.

For a few minutes, at least, I allowed myself to simply exist without the weight of treaties or demons or wedding nights pressing against my thoughts.

"You have found my mother's swing."

I startled so violently I nearly lost my grip on the ropes entirely, my eyes flying open to find Ruselon standing several paces away, having apparently approached with the same unnatural quiet he'd demonstrated upon the cathedral steps.

"You gave me such a fright," I said, one hand pressed to my chest, heart still hammering from the surprise.

And then he laughed.

It was, I realized immediately, entirely unlike the smile I had witnessed at our wedding feast — that careful, hollow performance offered up for an audience that required it of him. This was something else altogether. His head tipped back slightly, dark hair falling further from his shoulders, and the sound that came from him was warm and genuine and entirely unguarded, the specific delighted laugh of someone who had not expected to find something quite so simply amusing and had been caught off guard by his own reaction to it.

It changed his whole face.

The careful composure I had grown accustomed to fell away entirely, replaced by something younger, something almost boyish, and I found myself staring at him with an astonishment that had nothing at all to do with having been startled.

"Forgive me," he said, still smiling, though the laughter had settled into something quieter now. "I did not intend to frighten you. I have simply never seen anyone use that swing before. Not since my mother, at least, and I was too young then to properly remember it."

"It is a beautiful thing," I said, still slightly breathless, though whether from the fright or from the sight of him laughing so genuinely, I could not entirely say. "I hope you do not mind that I have made use of it."

"I do not mind at all," he said, something softening further in his expression. "I believe she would have liked that. Someone finally sitting there again."

He crossed the remaining distance between us and, after a moment's hesitation that I found strangely endearing given everything I now knew of his power and his restraint, settled onto the grass nearby rather than joining me upon the swing itself.

"Where were you all morning," I asked, curiosity finally overtaking my earlier reticence to inquire.

"Matters of the court," he said. "Tedious, mostly. I apologize for leaving you without explanation."

"You need not apologize," I said. "Though I confess I was beginning to wonder if you had simply vanished entirely, the way you seem to appear and disappear whenever it suits you."

Something of the laughter returned to his eyes, though quieter now.

"A small talent," he said. "Among the less alarming ones, I hope."

"Considerably less alarming," I agreed, "than shattering every window in a palace."

He looked at me for a long moment, and I worried briefly that I had overstepped, mentioning the previous evening's cruelty so plainly. But instead, something warm settled into his expression.

"You are the first person," he said quietly, "who has ever made a joke of that particular story rather than using it against me."

I did not know what to say to that.

So I simply pushed off with my feet once more, letting the swing carry me forward, and said nothing at all — content, for the moment, to let the silence between us be a comfortable one rather than a guarded one.