Dirty little confessions.

The Crime and Confrontation.

The palace was silent, just the way she had wanted it.

Queen Elena threw her cloak more snugly around her and made her way along a small servants passage, which she was familiar with, and which she used without taking any notice of the guards who had been posted in front of the main halls.

She held in her hand a little iron key, cold and heavy. The treasury key.

She had stolen it earlier that evening at the desk of the king.

The door of the treasury stood before, heavy and strengthened as it was, its lock gleaming dimly in the torchlight. Elena paused, listening. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices.

Good.

She opened the door and crept in, shutting the door behind her.

Gold met her in dull piles and chests--coins with her seal upon them, bars laid in orderly rows, books lying on a long table. It ought to have given her a feeling of power. Instead, it felt suffocating.

All this, and her life was becoming smaller day by day.

She was fast, on her knees by one of the open chests, and filling a leather pouch with coins. She did not take a lot of it--there was enough to be missed at some time, perhaps, but not at the moment. She had done this before. Always careful. Always controlled.

She said to herself this time it had to be.

She drew herself, pouch in hand--

—and froze.

The noise was dull yet very clear. Leather shifting. A breath that was not her own.

“Queen Elena.”

Her name dropped in the room like a sword.

She turned slowly.

Marcus was standing close to the doorway, and one hand was on the hilt of his sword, the other loosely hanging by his side. His face was indescribable, his pose composed, steady, as ever. The torchlight reflected on the edge of his armor, and darkened his face.

The two did not move a step during a heartbeat.

Then Elena lifted her chin.

“What are you doing here? she hissed. “Leave. Now.”

Marcus looked down--not at her face but at the pouch that she held in her hand. He took a single step forward.

“I was on patrol,” he said evenly. “I saw the door of the corridor open. I followed.”

“You followed me?” Her voice sharpened. “You forget yourself. You forgot who you are! A lowly knight!”

He took another step. Now close enough that she could read the strain in his jaw.

“I didn’t,” he said. “And I won’t.”

The temper of Elena was hot and instantaneous. “You shall not mention this to anyone. Matter of fact ypu were never here, this conversation never happened. That is an order.”

She tried to move past him.

Marcus caught her arm.

It was a strong, restrained, not coarse, grip--but it immobilized her.

The breath of Elena came in, rather with shock than with pain. No one touched her like that. No one dared.

“Get your hand off me,” she hissed.

He didn’t.

Rather, he stared up at her, the first time he had ever done it, and his eyes were level and evaluative.

“You are robbing the treasury,” he said. “Had any other person been present, this would have been much more words

Her mind raced. Denial was useless. Rage was safer.

“ robbing the treasury?” she said. “I am the treasury.”

“You have royal coin in a secret pouch,” Marcus answered. “And you’re alone. At night. Without record. Does the king know you are here?”

His hold had been loosened to the point of making the point that he could release her--or tighten it.

Elena swallowed.

“You shall forget what you have seen,” she said, and lowering her voice. You will l walk me back to my chambers and tell no one nothing . I, in my turn, may disregard this... failure in discipline. I may chose to forgive you for your mistakes.”

Marcus gazed at her a long time.

Then he shook his head.

“No.”

The word was quiet. Absolute.

Her breath was again caught, in actual disbelief.

“No?” she repeated. “You believe that you can say so to me?”

I “believe,” he said, “that, should I report this, the court will get rid of you. They have been waiting for something like this after all.”

Her fingers clenched on the pouch. “You could not live a day betraying me.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I would do my duty.”

There was a silence between them, heavy and deep.

Elena sought a sign of indecision in his face. Fear. Anything she could exploit.

She found none.

“What do you want?” she questioned at last.

Marcus released her arm.

“For now,” he said, “nothing.”

Her stomach twisted.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I suppose you see,” he said, moving aside and pointing towards the door, “that this is not the end of it.”

Elena’s smile faltered, and went by him, her walk stiff with smouldering anger. He walked behind at a deferential pace, as he always did--only now all his footsteps seemed to remind her that the scale was changed.

Silently they strolled along the corridors.

Servants bowed. Guards looked away.

No one knew.

That was the worst part.

Marcus paused before the door when they came to her rooms.

“You will report to me tomorrow, as usual, Tomorrow,” Elena said tightening her lips.

“I will,” he said.

“And you will remember who I am.”

His eyes met hers.

“I have not forgotten,” he answered.

She banged the door behind her.

Elena paced the inside, her mind falling apart at a pace that she could not hold back. Her heart beat--not at the thought of being punished, but at the thought that, after a long time, somebody had stared at her and not turned away.

Marcus had seen her.

Not the queen. Not the ruler.

The woman violating her laws.

And he had taken away the truth in his hands.

Marcus stood, motionless several seconds, outside, and then turned back down the corridor. His face was still restrained, yet his thoughts were by no means peaceful.

Years had he swallowed her insults. Her commands. Her cruelty.

Tonight she had been caught.

And he had an idea of what he wanted of her.