prince pilate of
house ieshan
house ieshan
you think you are possessing me
but I've got my teeth in you.
I
don’t bother inviting the Warden. I know he will show up anyway. I think of him and I think of something I read in a book once; not a very highbrow book, at that: love is like a rat, in that it has a collapsible skeleton and will find its way into your home through seemingly impossible holes.Our parties are well-known and well-advertised. He already knows my address. I’ve instructed the guards to let in the black pegasus with the white lip, if he comes, so really—there is nothing stopping him. Andras is like that rat. I am fully confident he will find his way into my home, and it seems likely that it will be through some seemingly impossible hole.
I don’t worry. I’m not a worrier. I stand in the kitchen and actively don’t worry, a back hoof cocked carelessly, my shoulder pressed to the edge of the bar as I lean part of my weight against slab of marble. My chest and stomach feel loose, warm. The two drinks I’ve had already are settling—seeping into my blood, it feels like, and my whole body seems to have risen in temperature by a few degrees. I can feel my cheeks flush, but I don’t think anyone else will be able to tell. My skin is dark, and in here the lights glimmer everywhere like a funhouse, distracting winks of white and gold; and the snakes, which have decided to cooperate today and wind themselves into “braids”, fall on both sides of my face anyway.
Most of the faces that pass through are recognizable. I see a few of my siblings and chastise them for their appearances—Ruth screws her lip up at me like she’s holding in a sneer, and Miriam appears visibly drunk, her hair still wet and eyes punched down by dark circles. Then there is the parade of Hajakhan nobles, including Lady Aghavni, whom I am careful to bow and offer a drink to: it would be rude of me not to acknowledge our own emissary. After her and her cousins come the Sevettas, then the Azhades, both their parties wrapped up in robes of red and purple; and after them the commoners begin to filter in, all of them gaudily over- or under-dressed.
I am doing what I always do. Not-worrying. And for once I am not speaking, either. I only look at all my guests in silence, and judge them with my plasticine smile. An out-of-place hair here—a poorly chosen set of accessories—I swallow them all gratefully. Eagerly. In this house, at this party, I am judge, jury, and executioner.
Just how I like it.
To judge, though, you must pay close attention. So when the Warden steps through the door—I don’t miss it. I am paying close attention. My eyes are sharp, so sharp and intent as they fall on him that they almost burn, but I don’t glance away; I can’t. It’s the addictive pain of looking at the sun.
He hasn’t dressed up. I’m not surprised, really, but I certainly am offended he didn’t bother getting pretty for me, and when I first look at him it might be with a kind of scowl. A warden, I think, disgruntled, and still a peasant. Where are your manners? (But he still looks damn handsome. I’d never say it out loud, but—my throat feels suddenly hot. Then my whole body, overflowing with a blush-warmth. Or maybe it’s alcohol. But he knows. He must know.)
“Warden,” I respond coolly. And then, grinning the littlest bit, I add: “Since when have you cared about whether you’re bothering me?”
But I already know what I will suggest to him, and I already know that he will drink it. So I push the cup toward him. A crystal goblet, cleaned to shining, filled with a carbonated amber-and-red drink that has been poured over spheres of ice. The smell of mint rises up between us.
