Proxy

My blood runs cold.

He knows.

“My daughter by Imogen—that is, by Amira Al’Kilic,” Edgar continues, “my daughter is named Elizabeth. She has recently come of age. And she has agreed to marry the Northerners’ Oberjarl ascendant, the young diplomat, Thorunn Halfdansson.”

Edwinn IV shoots to his feet. “That’s not true!” he shouts. “Thorunn is engaged to your little clerk, Eloise, isn’t that right?”

“A clever front,” says Edgar calmly. “But a proxy, nothing more. Elizabeth is studying abroad, and she agreed to her engagement in absentia. She understands the political ramifications of this marriage, so if emergency requires it, the alliance between the Northern tribes and the Alamaric Isles can be sealed by proxy at any moment. Father, you should be quite familiar. If I recall, your marriage with Mother was by proxy, too, wasn’t it…?”

The King is silent. This seems to be news to most people in the room, as Edwinn IV and Emerlane both look at the King in bewilderment. “Father, is that true?” asks Edwinn IV.

“I see you’ve done your research, Edgar,” the King sighs. “Yes. It’s true. Your mother was busy quelling an uprising in her duchy, so I sealed our alliance by proxy marriage. It was to her lady-in-waiting, Lady Thalassa Crowley.”

“And that’s legal?” asks Edwinn IV. “That’s binding?”

“Oh, yes,” Edgar smiles. “As binding as if Elizabeth were here right now. The only question is…” He rests both hands on the dining table and leans forward. He directs his gaze across the table to Count Guildenstern. “...will the Northerners marry into established Saelic wealth, or into the new money of an unpredictable foreigner?”

You could hear a pin drop in the dining hall.

(In Lucienne’s lab, I elbow Moretti. “Did you know about this?” I demand.

“No!” he hisses back. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

I elbow Thorunn next. “And you?”

He shakes his head. “I—I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”

“How did he find out about me?!” I hiss. “Was it Ezra?”

“Absolutely not,” says Moreti. “Ezra wouldn’t dare tell him this early in the game. I don’t think he knows.”

“You don’t THINK he knows?! Then why the fuck—”

“Oh,” Mom breathes. “He’s bluffing.”

Thorunn, Moretti, and I turn to her. “What?” we chorus.)

“You’re bluffing,” says Edwinn IV.

“I am assuredly not,” says Edgar.

(“He absolutely is,” says Mom. “I know him. This is how he plays cards. He makes up a story so unbelievable that it can only be true.”)

“Leopold,” Edgar continues, holding Count Guildenstern’s gaze, “I’m sorry I can’t be your son-in-law. But know this: I do not intend to cut you out. I am offering you the business opportunity of a fucking lifetime. You can’t afford Northern steel. I know your finances; I know you need a reliable supplier for your shipyards. You have nothing but contracts and a handshake. That’s not enough to buy them. I have something more. I have an heiress.”

“Edgar, you don’t know that,” the King cuts in. “I have not ruled on your petition. And your mother has not given her side of the story. You cannot go around calling some faceless, unknown girl your heiress before we have even run a background check on her.”

“Fine. Alleged heiress. Upon whom three separate records clerks—Martha Gadwell, Peter Pym, and Eloise Odric—have already run thorough background checks, and confirmed as real and legitimate. Or as legitimate as she can be, seeing that my marriage status is currently in limbo.”

(“He doesn’t know,” says Moretti. “I think you’re safe.”

“I would feel safer if he stopped yapping,” I reply.

“I’m sure we all would,” Moretti agrees, rubbing his forehead.

“I’d feel safer if YOU stopped yapping,” says Lucienne stiffly. “I’m actively channeling eighty kilowatts of electricity through my body, just so you know.”

“Sorry,” we whisper.)

“Here’s the deal,” Edgar snaps his fingers. “Leopold. Alessandra. If you willingly dissolve the betrothal, you get first dibs at the Northern steel. First slice of the pie, however you cut it, before any other contractors.”

“Excuse me, but you don’t make that decision,” says Edwinn IV.

“Right, sorry,” Edgar slaps his forehead. “I’ll ask my wife, and she’ll make the decision.”

(Mom squeals with glee. “He said it again! His wife!”)

“You would call her that again? Your wife?!” Olivia howls.

“Edgar, stop it!” Countess Guildenstern scolds. “You’ve rubbed enough salt in the wound. How dare you be so cruel to Olivia! After all she’s endured for you!” Her glare moves from Edgar to the Count. “We won’t take any deal. And you will marry our daughter as planned. Isn’t that right, Leopold?”

“O-oh—um—yes, Sandra, of course.” Count Guildenstern clears his throat, then looks down at his lobster. “Sorry, Edgar. No deal.”

It does not seem to convince anybody. Least of all Countess Guildenstern, who continues glaring daggers at her husband while holding the tearful Olivia close to her chest. I have no doubt that tonight’s stay in a palace guest room will be anything but restful for the Count and Countess. If only we could be a fly on the wall for that argument, too.

In the ensuing silence, the only sounds are Olivia’s pathetic, hiccuping sobs.

“Your Highness,” she sniffles, “I…I just d-don’t know…what I did wrong.”

Edgar turns to her. He remains standing, even as she has slumped completely out of her chair and onto the floor. But he does not bother to close the distance. “Excuse me?” he asks flatly.

Olivia wipes her eyes. The tears flow freely now, leaving streaks across her face—revealing the layer of peach-pink powder that, if not for the tears, would have been indistinguishable from natural skin. So she is wearing makeup, and has been this whole time. The tears, however, are quite real. When she looks up at Edgar, her blue eyes are dewy and shining, like a lost puppy.

“I-I-I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Olivia whimpers. “How could you still love that woman after nineteen years? When she hasn’t even done anything? When you haven’t even seen her? Whereas I…I have been here this whole t-t-time…doing everything for you…and…you still…don’t…love me?”

It is a truly pathetic sight. If I did not know her as the woman orchestrating my execution, I would feel bad for her. Edgar remains just as unmoved. He looks between Olivia and Countess Guildenstern with obvious distaste.

“Well?” Countess Guildenstern demands. “Have you nothing to say for yourself? For breaking my poor daughter’s heart?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” says Edgar, “but for how Lady Olivia has treated me, I ought to break much more.”

Olivia bursts into tears again. Abruptly, Emerlane stands up, crosses the room, and punches Edgar on the shoulder.

“Fuck!” Edgar yelps. “That really hurt!”

“Good,” Emerlane spits. “You deserved it. Come on, Livvy. And you too, Your Grace—these boorish men have no sympathy for a woman spurned. I say we finish this meal in my private dining hall.”

For the first time in a long while, the King speaks up. “I agree,” he says. “Perhaps it was imprudent for us all to meet while…emotions are high.”

Emerlane, Olivia, and Countess Guildenstern leave. After a minute of awkward silence, Count Guildenstern pushes his chair back and stands as well.

“I’m afraid that I am feeling ill,” he declares. “I shall take my meal in my guest room, if that is alright with Your Majesty.”

The King nods and waves his hand to dismiss the Count, but Edgar will not let him go quite so easily. “Can’t face the music, can you, Leo buddy?” he mutters.

“Maybe you just have a shit taste in music,” Edwinn IV replies.

Once Count Guildenstern is gone, the King drops any pretense of manners. “Boys!” he snaps. “I expect better of you!”

“You really, really shouldn’t,” Ezra snickers under his breath.

“I cannot believe I am saying this, but Ezra, you have been the best behaved all night. Edwinn, Edgar, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Grown men squabbling like children! In front of guests, nonetheless!”

“Relax, Father,” Edwinn IV yawns. “It’s not like the Guildensterns haven’t seen Edgar plastered on the floor in a pool of his own vomit—they’re practically family already.”

“I ought to strangle you,” Edgar hisses.

“Oh my god, here we go,” Ezra sighs.

“Insulting my wife—my lawfully wedded wife— how dare you suggest that I purchased her like a common harlot? You know as well as anyone that’s not true, you know she was a servant of this palace—you had one reason to say that, and it was to provoke me. Well, Winny, you did it. I’m provoked. And I’m going to fucking kill you for it.”

“Boys!” the King yells a second time. “ SIT DOWN!”

They freeze. Then they obey.

“Edwinn.” The King turns to his eldest son, who is doing everything in his power to seem casual about not meeting his father’s eyes. “I expect such crass behavior from your younger brothers. But not from you. If Edgar were to insult your wife in such a manner, how would you feel?”

Edwinn IV doesn’t respond. The King leans forward.

“Answer me. How would you feel if Edgar called your wife a whore?”

“I wouldn’t react like that,” Edwinn IV replies.

“Okay,” the King folds his arm. “Then let’s pick a woman you actually care about. Let’s go with Estelle. How would you feel if Edgar called your daughter a whore?”

“Not good,” Edwinn IV mumbles, like a petulant toddler.

“Then how do you think it made him feel?”

“Not…good.”

“So what do we say?”

“I apologize.” Edwinn IV grits his teeth.

“That didn’t sound very genuine,” says the King.

Edgar’s hand is over his mouth. He is doing a valiant job of biting back a laugh, but not quite good enough. Edwinn IV spins around on his heel.

“Don’t you fucking laugh,” he snaps. “Father! You are enabling him. Can’t you see? Rules for me, but not for thee, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t think you know what that phrase means,” Ezra remarks.

The Crown Prince swings around to point a finger down the dining table. “You’re not helping! You can’t even keep a wife longer than a year; you can’t weigh in on arranged marriages of national importance!”

“I know that they don’t last longer than a year,” says Ezra.

“For you, perhaps! But the rest of us? Those of us who actually care about our kingdom, and not just following the whims and fancies of our dicks? When Mother and Father tell you to marry someone. You. Marry. Them. That is how it works, that is how it has always worked, that is the price you pay for being called Your Fucking Highness!” He is red in the face now, a trickle of sweat beading on his brow as he leans down to Edgar. “You don’t get a pass because you’re Mommy’s favorite little boy. And you don’t get to publicly accuse her of financial crimes to get your way. She’s not even here to defend herself, and you are dragging our mother’s name through the mud. I think you should care more about your own mother than your fake princess paramour.”

Everyone—including the King—braces, expecting Edgar to leap across the table. But he doesn’t. He just folds his arm and stares at his older brother, letting the silence drag on and on.

“Are you done?” Edgar deadpans.

“Piss off,” Edwinn IV spits.

“Well…” With a great sigh, Edgar stands again and turns. “It’s been great to have dinner with my lovely family. But I’m afraid I have a carriage to catch.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks the King.

“None of your business,” Edgar replies.

“To screw your fake princess paramour?” Edwinn IV suggests.

Edgar swings around and gives him finger guns. “You betcha!”

The door slams shut behind him. There is another flash of lightning, and the power flickers. Ezra begins to laugh. Quietly at first. Then longer, louder, until he is cackling.

“Gods, this family is fucked!” Ezra yells. “The best theatre can’t beat you guys. I love you all!”

EXHIBIT 51.

In support of his petition to His Majesty’s Court of Pleas, Petitioner EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ comes now and enters into evidence the following:

Photographic facsimile of a handwritten letter, written by Petitioner and addressed to Imogen Rossach, entrusted to Mr. Peter J. Pym. As no copies were originally ordered, it is unknown how this letter evaded the normal procedure of destruction ( see Petition, Paragraph 106, Subparagraph B).

Dated this September 21, 471 A.R.

To my princess,

It is the two hundredth night since you were torn away from me. Every single night, I have wept around around the cold, empty place in my bed. Of course I crave the sweet embrace of your womanhood (what man could not?). But such base desires pale in comparison to the resounding pit of sorrow which swallows me whole.

I miss the idle knowledge that you are close by. I miss hearing your voice in the other room. I miss seeing your socks on the floor. I miss the strands of hair stuck to my lapel. I miss waking up late, but reaching across the bed to find the covers still warm, cursing myself that I failed to catch you before you left for work, then promising to make it up when you returned in the evening.

I miss — more than anything — the comfort of your mere presence.

I would give it all. I would swear myself to a vow of chastity. I would give up any touch and caress, from any woman until the end of time, simply to spend a minute by your side, on the other side of a door, in a different room. It would be enough to know you are near.

Ever and eternally yours, now and forevermore,

Edgar

Duly sworn and submitted to the Court of Royal Pleas, certified in authenticity and veracity by Royal Notary and Clerk of Records, MS. ELOISE ODRIC, in service of His Highness, PRINCE EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ.

—

Clerk’s Note:

Mr. Hatfield — this is one of the less obscene examples of a “personal missive” written by His Highness to Ms. Rossach. As these missives generally have low evidentiary value to the present Petition, only this one is included. The remaining personal missives (those which somehow survived the rigorous purging procedure) are on file with Martha. She magically pulled them from Pym’s office at some point when I was not looking and sealed them.

His Highness will gladly stipulate around the sealed letters or pretend they do not exist entirely, as the mere mention of showing such intimate notes to this Court is enough to send him to drink.

Do not ask me about them. Martha is kind enough to shield our eyes from the extreme indecency contained therein, and for that we should be grateful.

— Miss Odric

P.S. Please tell your wife that her lemon bars are divine. I keep forgetting to ask you in person, but the next time she brings them to the break room, might she also bring her recipe? Thank you in advance!