Thread of Frost

Ch. 34: Great Esteem

"Is everything alright?" Isolde murmured.

Halson's breath was warm on her neck. "Better than alright. I've missed you."

Surprise flitted through her. "You have?"

Halson squeezed her waist. "It was cruel to abandon you on our wedding night. I've spent the last month thinking about all the things I'm going to do to make it up to you." He lowered his voice. "You look ravishing tonight."

Heat pooled in her cheeks. "Thank you."

"Come here," Halson said.

He turned her face with gentle fingers. His mouth was warm and sour, sweetened by cherry wine. The flush spread down her neck. Isolde was vividly aware of people cheering, of Julian's heavy gaze, but when she looked up, he was calmly cutting into a pork cutlet.

Halson squeezed her waist. There was something possessive about the gesture. Isolde raised her wine to her lips and watched as Tilda spooned strawberry pudding into a young lord's mouth; the other girl's face was flushed with drink.

Eventually, the dinner plates disappeared, replaced with sweet wine and candied almonds. Halson stretched his arms.

"To bed?" he murmured.

Isolde sensed it wasn't a question. "Sure."

They made their way down the corridor. Halson paused occasionally, stopping to ask a lord about his new gelding or a viscount about his wedding. Servants turned to face the wall as they passed. Halson's face was flushed with wine, and he swung their hands as they walked. He was in a good mood, Isolde realized; possibly even a great one.

Now was the time to ask.

Isolde turned into her bedroom, and Halson followed. He leaned against the wooden dresser, watching as she removed her shoes. His blue eyes glittered in the candlelight. Isolde unfastened her necklace, keeping her voice light.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" She set the snowflake amulet on the dresser. "I thought Tilda was going to be sick after all that strawberry pudding. Do you know the name of the lord that she was flirting with?"

"You'll never do that again," Halson said.

Halson's voice was very calm. His rings flashed silver as he began to unbutton his jacket, and Isolde paused. Surely she couldn't have heard correctly.

"What?"

Halson started on his rings next. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to run an empire? The only reason that I still have a throne to sit on is because people respect me. They hold me in great esteem." There was a plunk sound as the ring struck the dresser. "And now I return from my travels to find you cavorting with servants and slumming it in poorhouses?"

Isolde prickled. "I wasn't cavorting."

"They love you," Halson observed.

Her throat felt thick. "They could love you, too."

"I don't want them to love me." Halson's eyes were dark. "Love inspires intimacy. It inspires friendship. Where is the power in that?"

"Halson..."

He took a step forward. "You will never go to that poorhouse again. You will never speak with a servant informally again."

Isolde stilled. Of course Halson knew about the poorhouse; she'd been an idiot to think he wouldn't find out. Her heartbeat picked up. She was suddenly painfully aware of how far they were from the party. Nobody could hear her.

"They're scared, Halson," Isolde said. "All of them are scared."

His mouth flattened. "Good."

Halson turned for the window. The words were out of Isolde's mouth before she was fully aware of what she was saying.

"These gassings have to stop."

Halson paused. "What did you just say?"

"You can't just go around killing people." Blood pounded in her ears. "And I want to transform a wing of the palace into a home for people that can't afford to go anywhere else. A charity, in a sense."

"Why?" Halson's voice was a sneer. "So people like you? You want to buy their love and devotion?"

"No."

"You'll never win them over," Halson said, bracing his hands against the windowsill. "And even if you do, they'll never respect you. They'll never listen to you in the same way that they listen to me."

An unpleasant realization struck her. "For gods' sake, Halson, this isn't a contest."

"Get out," Halson said.

His shoulders were stiff. Isolde crossed her arms. It felt ridiculous to leave her own bedroom, and anyway, she could feel something burning in the pit of her stomach. Her fear was thawing, evaporating into anger.

"I'm going back to that poorhouse," Isolde said. "You can't stop me."

Halson's knuckles were white. "I said, get out."

Isolde started towards him. "And I'll speak to the servants however I'd like. You can't dictate how I—"

There was a smack.

Pain exploded across her face. Heat stung her cheeks, and her eyes felt hot and itchy. He'd hit her, Isolde realized, raising her hand to her cheek; he'd actually hit her. A mix of hot shame and anger and mortification curled in her chest. Halson was breathing hard, his chest pumping up and down.

"You stupid little bitch," Halson spat. "Let me make something very clear: I am emperor of the Loxian Empire. I am the one in charge." He seized her shoulder. "You'll do exactly as I say, or life will be very hard for you. Do you understand?"

She shook her arm. "Get off me!"

Halson's grip tightened. "Do you understand?"

Isolde stared at the ceiling. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she could feel a lump rising in her throat. I will not cry, she thought. I will not cry.

Halson sighed. "I only ever wanted to help you." He removed the final ring. "You've brought this on yourself."

He struck her.

The pain was sharper this time. More painful. Hot liquid trickled down her face, and her hand came away red. Halson struck her ribs next, and the wind was punched from her lungs. She doubled over. The third blow came to the back.

Isolde closed her eyes. I will not cry.

Halson's fist smashed into her cheek. She hugged the bed.

I will not cry. I will not cry.