Chapter 57: The Vinyl Player
AZIZA
I’d run into them in the admin corridor.
Rhydian and Bram, striding side-by-side in the direction of the council chamber, still in their morning formal wear coats. Bram had his cup. He always had his cup. I had started to assume it was physically attached to his person surgically.
I’d stopped dead and ducked my head. “My lords.” I’d then been forced to pause for the two of them. “Your Highness.”
Bram had beamed—his face lit up in genuine warmth. “Ana.” He’d inspected me with the amiable interest with which he was forever inspecting me. A general sort of interest that implied you were rather a curious phenomenon for his inspection, but a pleasant enough one. “How are you settling in? Finding the eastern wing agreeable?”
“It is very agreeable, my lord. Thank you.”
“Good, good.” He’d turned the cup in his hands. “You know, I’ve been thinking about your position.” As all his thoughts were—casual . “You were the admin coordinator before all of this.” He’d waved at the corridor in a sweeping gesture. And he’d waved at me. “It must feel terribly… quiet, sitting in the eastern wing doing nothing?”
I’d opened my mouth again.
“We have a supervision vacancy in the south supply corridor. Efficient woman like you—it would keep your mind off the general drudgery.”
Rhydian had turned to look at Bram.
“She has plenty to keep her mind on.” Rhydian had spoken in that flat tone he employed when he was attempting to tread carefully.
“She’s a concubine, Rhydian, not a prisoner,” Bram had said, with all the warmth of a man stating the obvious. “She should have something that involves her more. The south supply corridor would be perfectly adequate for her capabilities.”
“She has a function,” Rhydian had countered. “She handles the admin correspondence for me, and her own household duties. She does not require the south supply corridor.”
Bram had peered into my face. “Do you want the post, Ana?”
Both of them had been staring, so I’d been reduced to studying my thumb. Which I’d then jabbed the edge of with my thumbnail, for emphasis. “I am perfectly satisfied with my current role, my lord. Thank you for your consideration.”
Bram had surveyed my face for an inordinate amount of time with the air of a man studying a geological sample or a newly arrived specimen—a characteristic gaze I tried always to remember not to run into. “Very well,” he’d said. He’d smiled, nodding, and then he’d swept past me, leaving Rhydian in his immediate orbit, a cup held precariously in one hand. And just like that, the matter seemed settled.
Then Rhydian said, “Vessa had attacked her last night.”
Bram had looked over the top of his shoulder at me, an eyebrow arched in mild interest.
“In the gardens,” Rhydian had continued. “She’d found Ana near the moon pool, and had… engaged her. Vessa had initiated the exchange. Assaulted her first.”
Bram had examined my jaw where Sena had smoothed something into the bruise that morning. “Is that the case?”
“She spit on her, too. Once the fracas concluded.”
Bram had been silent, turning his face for a few seconds in quiet contemplation, before releasing a sound that was neither a chuckle nor a sigh. “Women,” he’d mused with the comfortable resignation of half a century of such interactions. “Such predictable dramatics. These things resolve themselves in time. Let them work it out. No need to exacerbate the situation. Vessa’s had a difficult time of it lately with losing the infant. New pressures in the household dynamics.” He’d nodded again, giving Rhydian a pat on the shoulder as if for emphasis. “Don’t concern yourself, son. Women sort these matters out among themselves eventually. It’ll blow over.” He’d raised his cup. “Ana.” A gesture of farewell. “Pleasure always.”
And they had proceeded onwards, leaving me in the hallway of our administrative section with the scent of old paper and stale incense lingering behind them.
Rhydian had looked at me. “Are you quite alright?”
“The usual. Female hysteria,” I’d said flatly. “He attributes it to female hysteria. Such an efficient, explanatory label.”
“It's the term that usually crosses his lips whenever a female demonstrates excessive emotionality. Even enthusiasm for one of his political causes.”
“Super helpful,” I’d deadpanned. “Thanks.”
He’d let out a soft exhalation through his nose, then said, “Come along. With me.”
“Where?”
He’d already started to walk. “My chambers. Wine will be offered, but you can refuse.”
His chambers were surprisingly warm, the fireplace stoked. He’d immediately gone to a corner cabinet, unlatched it with a flourish, removed a bottle of amber liquid and, without asking whether or not it was advisable or if I even drank wine, had poured me a glass, placing it in my hand. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling rather too conspicuous in his private space.
“So,” I’d said, holding the cup between my hands, “What is this about?”
“You’ve had a wretchedly eventful twenty-four hours,” he answered , crossing towards the very corner cabinet I’ve previously noted, only instead of paper documents, it held a decidedly peculiar musical contraption: an aged record player with a large brass horn. “And I possess a vinyl player.”
I’ve blinked. “A what?”
“My father acquired it years ago, from some far-flung western acquisition. Doesn’t know what to do with it. I’ve managed to figure out most of the functionality,” he continued. He lifted a record from its sleeve next to the machine, placed it gingerly on the platter, spun the crank several times with far more focused concentration than I’ve ever observed him giving to such endeavors, and gently lowered the needle onto the spinning vinyl.
From it, a sound bloomed—thin, slightly scratchy, yet undeniably melodic. Instrumental music, with a brass line pulsing beneath everything, a rhythm all its own, outside the strict, calculated cadence of court life.
I’ve stared at it, captivated.
Rhydian turned, and a faint, genuine amusement curved his lips. Not quite a smile, but an unmistakable glimmer of something much less calculated. “I’ve been wanting to play that for ages.”
“Play what?” I asked.
With a deliberate grace, he unbuttoned the top button of his formal coat. I looked from his face to his torso as he undid the second, then the third, in steady, rhythmic movements. His eyes remained on me, the nascent smile still in place, a clear intention hardening behind it.
“Rhydian,” I warned , my breath catching slightly.
“Drink your wine, Ana.”
I looked from the glass in my hand to the expression in his eyes, and took a large gulp, the alcohol already burning pleasantly.
He removed his coat, folded it with the meticulous care of someone performing a ritualistic act, then turned his back to me, undoing his shirt, button by patient button, as the brass melody wafted around us. The crackle and pop had never sounded so inviting. I had a laugh bubbling in my throat, barely suppressed.
He turned then, eyebrows raised slightly. “Amused?”
“You—you look terribly earnest.” I stifled a choked laugh against the heel of my hand.
“I am earnest. This is a serious operation.”
He shed his shirt and turned once more to deposit it on a nearby chair. Firelight glinted across the expanse of his back and shoulders. I took another, larger sip of the wine.
“You’re staring again,” he commented, still facing the fireplace.
“No, I’m not,” I insisted automatically, and focused my attention intently on the opposite wall, my cheeks flush with wine and mortification.
He turned, the half-smile softened into genuine amusement—at himself, at me, at the silly crackling horn music. He crossed to me, took the glass from my hand, and placed it on the night table. A second, genuine laugh, small and spontaneous, escaped me as he cupped my face in both his hands and looked deeply into my eyes.
“Better?” he inquired softly.
I met his gaze in the flickering firelight. His jaw was unclenching, a tension released; his eyes were warm, alight with a shared moment away from the rest of the world.
“A little,” I admitted.
He kissed the corner of my mouth. Then my cheekbone. Then my forehead. I leaned in, closed my eyes, and let the vinyl play.