(2022-03-23) A Wedding Night Waltz

Details

Author:	inkie
Summary:	After the Aspenwood wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Hazan share a dance.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Chain: Bizzy

Ben tugs Ismene by the hand out of the close-crowded heat and commotion of the Cathedral, into the cool air of a Stormwind spring night. Golden light spills from the doors and windows behind them onto the pale stone of the Cathedral Plaza, but the rest is silvered with shadow and moonlight, and the Plaza is largely still; they have stepped from a glittering Event into an ordinary, sleeping city.

Ben has collected his suit jacket and carries it slung over his shoulder, hooked by an index finger. His other hand is laced tight with Mizzy’s. He glances down at her, grinning and breathless. In another story universe, one might say that midnight has struck and the carriage is turning back into a pumpkin: tie hanging loose, shirtsleeves roughly rolled, his hair now thoroughly escaped from its Grooming and stubble shading his jaw again, he is reverting from young city gentleman to everyday Ben.

“C’mere,” he tells Mizzy, tugging her closer still in the empty plaza. He lifts her hand above her head to give her a dancer’s spin, the sort that even dedicated non-dancers have seen and can mimic.

Ismene looks like she’s still inside, still lit by glowing candles and sparkling jewels, surrounded by motion and beauty. Her eyes reflect the golden light as she spins, here and gone and here again, and she laughs. Blue gauzy skirts swish across the street, a whispering echo of her laughter.

“That was almost perfect!” she declares, spinning again all on her own. Too many spins; she’d stumble if she weren’t holding on to Ben, but even that is a source of delight and she turns her dazzled smile up to her husband. “My husband,” she says in happy contemplation of Ben’s jawline.

Ben drops his jacket in the street to seize Mizzy by her waist and lift her from her feet. He spins her again once, this time in a circle around him, and then staggers a step — too much wine — and catches himself to set her very, very gently down again. “Sorry,” he says, laughing, and pulls her against him to wrap her up briefly in his arms, swaying. “Good thing there was no bride in that weddin’ because you would’ve stole the shine right off her. Damn, you are the most beautiful. You know that? Look at you tonight.” He releases her and steps back so that he can admire her in accordance with his own instructions. “Damn, Miss Kitten. We should take you up to the Keep, they’ll make you Queen of Stormwind.”

Ismene spreads her arms wide as if she can hug the sky. “Then you would be King. King Bennarin, the Just and Kind.” She turns again, away from him and throws her head back, eyes closed. Her arms wrap around herself. “We must go to a huge ball every month,” she declares, then sighs deeply.

She looks at him over her shoulder. “You looked so handsome,” she says, smiling a little. “You always do, but this was a new level of handsome. I couldn’t take my eyes off you during the ceremony.”

It's hard to tell in the silvered darkness but Ben colors a little, bashfully gratified. "Well, I am sorry if it's wearin' off now. Mi– Lady Cressidha gets most credit, I think. She did a hell of a job on this suit." He looks down at himself, remembers he dropped his jacket, and backtracks a step to collect it from the cobbles, brushing it off apologetically. He glances over at Mizzy. "You in that dress, though, kitten-cat. I will take you to a ball every month if it makes you happy and you will wear a dress like that. I will learn to dance, even. We will just slip in to a ball uninvited every month, and everyone will wonder, 'Who is that beautiful couple that dances so good?' but no one will know because we will be gone. And we drank all their champagne." He laughs — someone has indeed drunk considerable champagne — and returns to Mizzy to offer his elbow gallantly. "You were a little swan in her pond in there with all them people."

“It’s not that I’ve never been to parties before,” she explains as she twines her arm around his. Her other hand comes across her body to rest on his forearm as well. “It was just different tonight. Everything was just so … perfect. And it isn’t wearing off at all. You look handsome now, too. Only not handsome, that’s not the right word.” A thoughtful little frown wrinkles her forehead, and she tilts her head to look up and over at him. Adjectives flicker behind her dark eyes, are picked up then shaken and discarded until she finds one she likes.

Her brow smooths, the corners of her lips lift. The thread of sensuality that winds its way through her expressions might go unseen in the lantern light. “Are we staying in Stormwind tonight?” she asks.

“Reckoned we might,” he says, his dark-eyed gaze lingering on her face. An answering smile curves one side of his mouth. “We could take the tram home to Ironforge if you’d rather. Or we could walk out into Elwynn and sleep out rough in our orchard. But I dunno how you feel about sleepin’ rough, or walkin’ through Elwynn at night, and it is still chilly nights this time of year. Figured a nice inn room in the city is our best bet, if the lady would like. The Rose?”

“Whatever,” she murmurs, leaning her head against his bicep. “Wherever, as long as I’m with you.” She holds onto him, the scent of him, the images of the ball.

Her head comes up. “You could’ve warned me about introducing yourself as Lord Hazan,” she scolds, though she hugs his arm tighter as she does. “I had to go telling everyone I was Lady Hazan and I felt so … so jumped-up. That’s what they’ll say about the Harbrookes, you know. That they married into a title. And at least they’re from Stormwind! Everyone will think you married some rich country social climber.”

Annnnnd she’s off. “I’m not at all, of course, though I suppose my parents are, and of course I fell in love with you before we knew you were going to be Lord Ference, which you will have to change to when you inherit because you’ll be Bennarin Hazan, Lord Ference unti– Oh! The baby will be Lord Ference, won’t he, the moment he’s born! I hadn’t even really considered… You won’t be Lord Ference at all. Oh! Not that I care, of course, if you hadn’t two copper to rub together, it’s just my parents you know and how will that work anyway?”

She takes a breath, but she can keep going.

“Cole said it was the right way to introduce,” says Ben. “I mean, people call him and his sister Lord Colson an’ Lady Cressidha and they ain’t the heirs, and I am the heir, so. Lord Bennarin Hazan, ain’t quite yet Lord Ference. Will be, after Mr — my — the present Lord Ference.” He pauses and gives Mizzy an apologetic sidelong look. “I did … when I went to see him about the elopement, I did tell him it was okay if the baby is my heir after me. Just … I mean, we can talk on it again when we have a baby or two. But so’s there’s an heir standin’ ready next down from me. And I really … don’t mind, I reckon, if he wants to take it back to his blood after me? I figure Hazan is still knit into the family anyhow, and I already brung in some fresh land with that piece outside Southshore I got, so we manage it right in our time — with your people’s land, too, assumin’ they give it, and with Duskwood even, maybe — there will be plenty we can divide off if we want to. Southern an’ northern Ferences, or whatever. Hazans in Hillsbrad and Ferences in Darkshire, or however we want to work it out.”

He covers her hand on his arm with his own. “I hope that was okay. For me to agree. Okay with you, I mean. You are my Lady in all this.” He definitely means Lady with the capital-L, and not, like, the little lady. “And anyhow, if they think you are some rich country social climber, I hate to think what they’re thinkin’ of me to begin with, because I am a poor country social climber.” He smiles crookedly.

They are passing through the arched, covered walkway at the southern end of the Cathedral District now; the briny smell of the canals is strong in the still night air, and the sound of water slopping against the dock pilings is louder than usual in the otherwise-almost-peace. A guard bearing a lantern on his rounds crosses the distant bridge ahead of them, tracing the reverse of their intended course, from the Trade District to the Cathedral.

Does the guard give the lovely young couple a nod? Perhaps it’s just the shifting lantern light, or perhaps he always nods at the gentry. Or he knows them. Mizzy doesn’t entertain the possibility, she just leans her head against Ben’s bicep again, if only momentarily. “It was fine,” she says. “You and I always seem in agreement over such things. Though I suppose now I’ll worry that our descendants will fight over such things. ‘If Bennarin Hazan was the heir, then the seat should pass through his bloodline.’ ‘No, it was Ference land, and Elohad Ference had a blood heir so it should pass through that bloodline and technically when the title was returned, all the Hazan land should have been returned.’ Then they’ll go to war.”

She looks up at him, all entreaties and worry. “We’ll word things carefully, won’t we? So that doesn’t happen? What’s ours now will stay ours and what’s Sir Elohad’s will stay his?”

Like a pre-nup, only for kids. A pre-pup.

“We will word things carefully,” Ben promises her. “We will — I can talk to Cole and get whatever lawyers the Aspenwoods use. Or maybe talk to Sil about that gnome, the one that done the Code of Conduct for Mr Ference, too. There will be no fightin’.” After a moment he adds, only half teasing, “Also we will raise up kids who know better’n to fight with family. Yeah?”

“It’s not our children I worry about,” she says, as if she’s been worrying about this for months and has a detailed summary tucked away somewhere. “It’s our grand children and great-grand children and their children …”

She manages to stop herself before she goes all Mizzy again. She steps in front of him and turns, smiling. “Or,” she says, swinging slightly as she had earlier, her skirts whispering on the pavement, “I could teach you to dance.”

Ben raises his eyebrows and looks around them at the empty bridge, the tranquil canals. “What, here, Mrs. Hazan?” He looks back at her, and his gaze travels appreciatively once more, taking in the gown, the slight and swaying form beneath it. “I mean, you know I am always glad to learn a thing, and if we are gonna go to all those balls …” He rests a hand lightly on her waist.

There’s a gleam of naughty delight in her eyes that might mean trouble, if it weren’t Ismene. She firmly shifts his grip so it’s higher, almost on her shoulderblade. “Now sir, none of that,” she chastises, settling her hand lightly on his shoulder. Their other hands, she joins together with hers on top, out slightly to one side.

“One dancer leads,” she explains, “and the other follows. But you can’t talk, you just have to tell me with your body. Do you think you can do that?” One blink, no matter how slow, does not constitute batting one’s eyelashes, even over eyes as big as hers.

And Ben’s smile does not constitute a leer, because he is not a leering fellow, but if he were, I am just sayin’. “Oh, I can tell you a lot of things that way. I don’t know if they’re dance kind of things. Am I … leadin’?” He tips his head, solemnly awaiting instruction.

“Yes,” she says. It takes a moment for her to say that, what with how she compresses her lips together to smother her laughter. “Your hand is under mine, so you’re leading and I’m going to try to follow where you go. But for now, step where I tug you. The first step is a ‘box step’ because we form a box. I’ll go back, you come with me. Step left foot, then right foot …” She begins trying to backwards-lead him through a simple waltz step, without falling off the bridge.

Because falling off the bridge is not permitted on the dance floor, and there’s no good showing him such advanced steps yet.

It does take Ben a couple of repetitions to understand what she is trying to get him to do; he is accustomed enough by now to being led places by his chihuahua that he follows gamely along, but he really is just walking a step after her, there is nothing about his movement that says dancing. The direction of his gaze also says his chief concern is with not stepping on either her feet or her hem.

Fighting — whether with fist or sword — is in the footwork, too, though, and after Mizzy has drawn him through the step twice, Ben starts to catch on. As she tries to lead him through a third round, he resists, tugging her back to him, and then he starts to lead.

A natural fighter, perhaps, but he cannot be called a natural dancer. He has the hang of the step now, but his strength and his stride both overmatch Mizzy’s, and it takes him another iteration or two to moderate these so he isn’t simply lifting her off her feet and carrying her through the step.

But for a moment, maybe just one, they’re dancing. She is in Ben’s arms and they’re dancing. Even if he is looking at the ground, even if he’s concentrating hard, even if it is just a simple box step with none of the spinning or twirling. She says nothing, she just one-two-threes her way forward and backward and loves him.

“My parents are in Ironforge,” she says, perhaps a bit dreamily.

"Okay," says Ben to their feet, concentrating. And then he looks up sharply, says, "Wait, what?" and steps on her hem.

He tries to correct immediately, but in his haste to get off her hem — and aided by wedding wine — he overbalances in the wrong direction. For a perilous moment it seems like he's going to take Mizzy down with him, but he lets go of her — be free! — just in time, and only stumbles back to sit down hard on the bridge's cobblestones himself. "Ow," he says, and then repeats, "Wait, what?"

She blinks down at him. What on Azeroth is he doing on the ground? “My parents are in Ironforge,” she repeats. “I told you they’d probably come when I sent for a gown appropriate for the occasion. Are you all right? Is your– I mean, do you need a– “ She holds up a hand, glowing slightly just in case his butt hurts.

Ben is already getting sheepishly to his feet. He pauses to stoop and check on the hem of Mizzy’s gown; there is a definite boot-smudge there, but nothing is ripped and it could certainly have been worse. He straightens. “I’m good, I’m okay. Sorry. Your — I was in Ironforge last night, with Cole, for the bachelor —” He cuts himself off and surveys her. “You seen them yet? Are they — what’ve they heard? What do they want? Should we set up …” He is not at all clear what they might set up. A meet-my-husband dinner? An apology buffet? A brunch double date? He does, however, step in and take her hand again, placing his other hand as she’d arranged it before, prepared to resume their not-quite-dance. His gaze is on her face rather than her feet this time, a line of concern between his brows.

More than willing to do a box step on a midnight bridge in Stormwind as long as Ben wants, Mizzy steps back into position and waits for his lead. “Goodness, that’s a lot of questions. Let’s see. No, I haven’t seen them. I don’t know what they’ve heard but they’ve had time enough to make polite inquiries around Ironforge and I’m certain they’ll find out about you. I suppose they want to hear about the wedding and how I happened to get invited to the Aspenwoods wedding at the Cathedral. And I suppose the only thing we have to set up is … Well, our own bravery to face them.” She doesn’t seem to fear the very notion, for once.

Then again, she did have rather a lot of wine and champagne. For someone her size, anyway.

Ben digests this for a few moments as he begins — carefully! — to lead her through the step again. Possibly because the Worst has already happened and the only result was a bruise to his dignity, he is more relaxed and fluent in the motion now: still not quite dancing, but not quite just walking through it, either. “Okay,” he says. “Well. When you are settin’ up for a fight, the best way to do it is on your own ground, and to get the drop on the other fellow. So maybe we invite ‘em to meet up before they do too much pryin’ on their own and call you — or us — on the carpet.”

He arches an inquiring brow at her. It does not seem to have occurred to him that perhaps one does not ordinarily prepare to meet one’s in-laws with a battlefield strategy.

It doesn’t strike her as odd, or at least she doesn’t mention it. “They’ve probably taken rooms in the Hall of Explorers. It’s quieter there; Mother doesn’t like being close to the forge and it’s close to the tram if they need to visit Stormwind.”

A flicker of concern dims her serene expression. “It’s not likely to be pretty,” she cautions him. “I mean, I’ve tried and tried to tell you what they’re like and warn you, so you probably already know that, but … Well, you’ll see. Just don’t … Don’t hit anyone, all right?”

Ben studies Mizzy’s expression, trying to decide how serious she is. “I will … not hit anyone.” After a moment’s further consideration, he asks, “Based on what we were talkin’ about before with Mr Ference, about how to play it — you reckon I should be on my sweetest behavior, or act the asshole?”

Being the sneaky sort that we all know she is, Mizzy subtly begins increasing the speed of the steps a little at a time while Ben is distracted by the upcoming battle … well, if not ‘royale’ at least ‘noble’. “Just be yourself,” she counsels. “They’re not going to much care what you have to say anyway. Though perhaps lean into your title a bit. Or a lot. Insist on being called by it, or something. And don’t get mad when my father calls you ‘boy’, because he probably will.”

She sighs. “Or maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll have manners. I just don’t know what to expect, except that it won’t be pleasant.”

“Well,” he says, very, very drily, “ain’t gonna be the first time I been called ‘boy.’” He does not observe that he murdered the last guy who did a lot of that. Presumably the ‘no hitting’ rule covers murdering, as well. “I will manage. Are you gonna be okay? If I am honest, it’s more likely gonna be them being shit to you that’s gonna make it ugly.” He has either not detected the change in tempo or is just proving an apt pupil.

“That’s what I meant,” she says with a little laugh. “They’re going to be terrible to me as well as to you, but don’t punch anyone on either account. It might make him shut up, but it won’t solve anything, exactly.” She just assumes he wouldn’t punch her mother, one could suppose.

“So I’ll send them a note asking to meet for tea? Would you prefer it at … at your home or in public? Or at their rooms, of course.”

Ben considers. “I am guessin’ they are not gonna be too impressed by my place, for a lord, and also that it is rude to invite them and then impose by havin’ it at theirs. Is there … a nice public place in Ironforge? For tea? Bruuk’s and the Stonefire are the places I know best, and they ain’t exactly tea places.” He looks around at the bridge, the canals, the pale stone facades of the nearby townhouses. “We could ask ‘em to Stormwind, but that also might impose, yeah?”

“Not really,” Mizzy says, thinking the idea over. “Likely my father will come to Stormwind anyway to do business; he comes a few times a year so he’s probably going to combine trips. And Mother will love the idea of coming to spend money.” She smiles at him. “The shopping is better here, you know.”

She nods. “Yes, I think that’ll be just the thing. I do have to go back to Honor Hold tomorrow, but I can send an invitation for the afternoon tomorrow if you’re free?”

It’s not yet time to tell Ben they’re at a reasonable waltz tempo. Soon.

Soon.

“Miss Kitten-Cat,” Ben reminds her gently. “I am gonna be up to my knees in mud tomorrow, probably fightin’ fucken jellyfish or somethin’. The day after?” Look! He is waltzing! Shhh.

“Oh goodness! I forgot entirely.” She laughs again. “Why do you want such a scatterbrain for a wife, Mr. Hazan? Monday it is. Will that be enough time to get the smell out?” Her smile takes on a new character, one that he must be familiar with by now. “I could help …”

He grins at her. “I will be relyin’ on you absolutely, missus. Also I should maybe get this suit … pressed, or whatever? Since it is my best one?” It is his only one. But also it is objectively a very nice one. “You want a new dress for it? Reckon we got the money, and Lord Ben ought to keep his Lady in a nice dress. When he is not keepin’ her out of it.”

Another bright burst of laughter. “Bennarin Hazan, we are in public.” She is obviously very upset, what with her happy smile and eyes that sparkle even in the dim lantern light. “I probably should have a new dress. She’ll know it’s not one of the ones I brought with me. Unfortunately, she notices things like that.”

There’s a brief marring of her expression before she returns to happiness. “I’ll take care of your suit, my lord. Though if you get too many and we do end up with our own home, you’ll need a valet. Perhaps a butler, who can do both jobs though it’s a little beneath his dignity.” She pronounces the ‘t’, because she is not French. No one is. This is Azeroth. But everyone knows what I mean.

“Well,” says Ben, “I would hate to make a man do a job beneath his dignity, even if it is an imaginary butler. But okay, I will stop at the bank tomorrow before I go back and draw out some money to leave with you. You can dress-shop before you go back. There is — I know Aunt Niris goes to a dressmaker on the canal row. Reckon if you tell ‘em you’re her daughter-in-law they could find you somethin’ extra nice.”

“Oh!” Ismene blinks at him, startled. “I never even thought abo– Of course we shou– I’ll have t– We’re married.” This is somehow a surprise to her. So much of one, she doesn’t go into one of her long, breathless semi-finished sentences ballistic mental bouncing ball rants.

And still, they dance on a bridge as a guard, possibly the same one, passes with his lantern raised.

“Oh, yeah,” says Ben, and grins at her. He ignores the guard. Stormwind guards have probably seen weirder. “Didn’t you hear? It was in the newsletter.” He waltzes her. Holy shit, he’s waltzing her. Mostly.

“Now I got to hope your parents didn’t see me an’ Cole in Ironforge last night,” he admits. “Though I’m guessin’ they were not at the same spots we were. Did you an’ Mordecai get up to trouble?” His gently teasing tone says he knows the answer already.

“Of course,” she says. “We destroyed a bar and drank a lot and then got arrested for disturbing the peace when we danced in a fountain with no clothes on. Just the sort of thing you’d expect us to get up to.

“But that’s not what I meant. About being married. There’s so much I should’ve done! Should do! As your wife, I mean.” Her gaze goes distant as she thinks. “There’s the finances to put in your name, and I should have long since arranged for your wardrobe, a servant for the house even though I suppose we’re not there but still we’re both too busy to keep a house up. Meals! You can’t be expected to cook all the time. I wonder if I can get a woman of all work for the tidying and meals, and of course a valet for you. Goodness that does seem a lot to expect one woman to take care of; two, I think. One for the cooking and cleaning, another as a lady’s maid and keeping the bedroom …”

Oh yeah. She’s gone. She’s not on the bridge anymore, dancing or not.

Ben stops her from talking by the expedient of kissing her. The waltz comes to a necessary halt, because kissing and waltzing is hard when you are a very novice waltzer but a dedicated and thorough kisser.

When he is quite finished kissing her, he straightens slowly and smiles down at her. “Ismene,” he says. “I never had a house servant in my life and I don’t expect we got to have one just yet. The place in Ironforge don’t need one. Now that Sil’s in Outland too, I expect I can just ask Aunt Nir or Estel to look in on it now and again while we’re gone. Definitely I do not need a valet, I would not know what to do with one. If you want a lady-maid or think you ought to have one, we can arrange that, I am happy to. And I got my finances in my name, we do not have to put any of your finances in my name, I was just thinkin’ we should get both our names on one … finances. Or if you want to keep your own apart, that’s fine too. The rest of it, cookin’ and housekeepin’ and whatnot, we will look at that when we got a proper house to be kept.”

He pauses, considers her. “We should … now that everyone knows it, I reckon we should get set up in a house together. You want — I ain’t gonna buy a place until I got the money to buy the right place. You want us to rent somethin’ else? I can … rent Ironforge out, or just pass it back to Aunt Nir if she wants it back, and we could maybe find someplace here? Or …?”

Mizzy listens, still half in a kissing daze. “That’s a very nice way to be interrupted,” she says softly. She gives her head a sharp little shake that doesn’t disturb the comb keeping her hair in place. “But you only think you don’t need a valet because you’ve never had one, and be–” Oh. She looks up at him with big eyes and shrinks back a little. Then she goes a different way. Verbally, anyway. She’s still standing on the bridge with him. “That is to say, there are a great many things we should be doing that we’ve not done, but we should probably do now. There’s some excuse to being busy here and something of a honeymoon period, but really … I can take care of most of it, of course. If you’ll allow me.”

Ben definitely caught that shrink, and the change in tack; his eyes narrow a fraction, in an assessing way rather than an unhappy one, and he tilts his head. After a time he says, “Mrs Hazan, I will allow you what you think best. Okay? I appreciate you talkin’ about it with me, but I do trust in your judgment too, you know that, yeah? The thing that makes you a good noble wife for me — I mean, the thing that makes you a good wife for me is you and that I love the hell out of you — but the thing that makes you a good Ference wife is that you know this shit, you know how to manage what has got to be managed for a noble house.” He hesitates and then adds, more carefully, “And you know what your own people are gonna expect and think of it all.”

He does not resume waltzing, but presses her closer with the hand on her back. “And you can say shit at me and not worry I am gonna — I don’t even know what you’re worried I’m gonna do. But you can say it, okay? That is what we do, is talk about stuff. We promised. If you think I need a valet, you can tell me why. We both know where I come from, I ain’t gonna be insulted if you point it out, and I know you ain’t lookin’ down your nose because you married me, missus.”

His hand on her back relaxes, so that she can step away again if she wants to. “So tell me what you think, and also tell me whether you want me to look into a place here in Stormwind to let until I find somethin’ we can buy.”

“The home is– No, I’d rather wait until we can have a real home, a home we’ll have forever and ever. It’s just th– Well, what I mean to say is …” She takes a breath and looks at his chest, reaching up to touch him, to finger the mother-of-pearl buttons. “There are some … things that we haven’t done as Ference inheritors that we really should be … seeing to.” She looks up at him, worried.

Ben nods gravely. “Okay. I believe you. I feel like we have just established that. Can you … tell me what they are specifically, or how come? And why you seem so skittish about it?”

Her hands clench into fists, the one on his chest about ready to pull the button off. “Because if I say it wrong, you’ll think you’ve failed at your duty and you haven’t! You haven’t at all, and I don’t ever want to make you feel you have! You’re so good and protective and you … you charge to the front and take all the pain of the world on yourself and I don’t want to add to it!”

He puts his hand over the small fist on his chest. “Mizmainy,” he says gently. “I believe you. And if you say it wrong, I will know you don’t mean it wrong, and we will talk it out until it’s sorted. You have got to know, kitten, that you ain’t got to worry about sayin’ a thing right or wrong at me. We will talk. So go on and tell me. What am I missin’ doin’? It is, if I am gonna be blunt myself, your part in all of this, yeah? You are the one who knows it, the managin’. That means you got to tell me what I ain’t managin’ right.”

Okay, her doubting expression says, but this doesn’t feel like a good idea. “F– Ference lands?” Having squeaked out two words, she bulldozes ahead. “I know you’ve been incredibly busy since you were declared heir and everything and you’ve gone so far and now you’re a lieutenant in the Company and then we got married and everything’s just been a jumble, but …” She stops herself and fades back into the tiny voice. “But the p-people really do need us.” FULL STEAM! “And I haven’t done anything either, and of course that’s much worse because I know better and I’m the one trained to it and you really aren’t so I should’ve been doing something and I’m sorry, really I am!”

Ben is quiet for a moment, and then with a sigh he steps back and away to subside against the rail of the bridge. Half-seated on it thus, he reaches for her again to tug her over to him. “You are correct,” he tells her. “And yeah, I have had a lot goin’ on between Lordaeron and now Outland, and there’s still Lord Ference himself — I mean, he’s the one on the council down there an’ all — but that don’t mean I should neglect it if I mean to do it proper. I talked to him — Lord Ference — back in the day about gettin’ a paladin sinis– senna– the land-manager thing you talked about? But I don’t think beyond our talkin’ about it, it went anywhere. I will look at it again. Maybe also you can talk to Aunt Nir about that piece of land I picked up east of Southshore? I gave ‘em the deed for Winter Veil, my folks, and I know it’s good farmland up there and I reckon Aunt Nir might like to do some growin’ herbs and whatnot on it besides, but there’s nothin’ on it right now, the Barovs ain’t touched it since before the war. Maybe you and her could put heads together about what needs doin’? And if there’s Ference people in Duskwood hurting bad for land or work, maybe we can see about moving some of ‘em up there, even if temporary?” He cants his head at her.

She follows him to the bridge rail and takes one of his hands in hers as he’s tugging. “No, I’ll look at it. I have the least to do of the two of us, and I know just everyone on the council in Southshore. I think offering to resettle some of the farmers up there is a wonderful idea! If you don’t mind, I could handle that. They’ll need proper housing and might need some staples. This is a good time to get started with plowing now that we’re past the last freeze.”

She relaxes a little, but eyes him carefully. “I hadn’t been thinking of them either, you know. So you didn’t fail, all right?”

He squeezes her hand in gentle reassurance. “Mizmainy. The thing is, I am relyin’ on you to tell me if I do fail, or fuck up. That is the point of you knowin’ this shit. We are a pair. We are a yoked team here, and if I am balked or I ain’t pullin’ the right way, you got to tell me. Okay? I am countin’ on you to tell me so I can fix a thing or make an amends. I mean, I will look out on my own, too, but like I said, you know a lot of this better than me. I known what it is like to be on the farmer side of it, but not on a landlord side. So yeah, I can think of things we can do to help out the farmers, but sometimes you might have to kick me and say, ‘Ben Hazan, those are your farmers there,’ because I am wrapped up in … soldierin’, or whatever else. It’s fair. And I promise I will get better at it so you won’t have to kick me so often, because I know you don’t love to kick and I’m sorry you will have to some. And if you will handle any resettlin’ that needs to be done, I will be obliged.”

“I don’t mind telling you when things need fixing,” she says, resting her hands on his chest but without the button-clenching. “I do mind if you’re going to feel horrible because of it. I only want you to feel good things, always, and if that isn’t realistic, well then I don’t want any of the bad things coming from me.”

He tugs her even closer, then releases her hand to put his own hands on her hips. “I appreciate you, Mrs Ismene Hazan. And I would like to get us a nice inn room for the night because I ain’t even shown you what all I got up to last night with Cole.”

Mizzy fights a smile. “I’m not altogether certain I want to know what a private inn room has to do with what you and Colson did at his bachelor party, Mr. Hazan. Is it going to shock me?”

She hopes it shocks her, please, says her expression.

“I don’t know,” he concedes, and leans forward to kiss her nose impishly. “I mean, I can think of some things that might shock you, if you are in a shockin’ mood tonight, but I do not know whether this one will be it or not.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “C’mon, let’s find out?”

“Whatever, wherever,” she says again. “As long as I’m with you.”

He smiles at her, his gaze soft. After a moment, he gently shifts her backward with his grip on her hips, then straightens to his feet and offers her his arm again. “We’d better hope there’s room at the Rose at this hour.”

There is, it seems, room at the Rose, and although Allison has to be awakened to arrange one for them, when she takes in the fine clothing — and tipsiness — of the young couple, she is only too happy to engage for them a quite respectable upstairs suite with a private washroom that overlooks the canals and Mage Quarter bridge at the back of the building rather than what will be the clamorous morning Trade District. An expensive suite, no doubt, but that is a matter for Tomorrow-Ben. Tonight-Ben takes it all in with tremendous satisfaction as Allison slips out and closes the door.

“Damn,” he approves, and goes to the bed to touch the clean down coverlet, then surveys the pillows in their crisp linen shams. “That is a lot of pillows for one bed.”

Ismene undoes the comb in her hair and the bent pins holding the back into its cute little bun. A shake of her head is all it takes to settle her hair back where it belongs; normally that’s a curse since it won’t hold curls, but tonight it’s a blessing. Minimum of fuss. She glances at the bed, then at Ben, and smiles.

“Some of them are just for being pretty,” she says, reaching behind herself to try and find the lacing holding the gown shut. “That’s an average amount, I’d say.”

“Here,” says Ben, stepping toward her. “I can unlace. Turn around.” He unbuttons and shrugs out of his waistcoat and tugs his tie the rest of the way off, tosses both on the bed, and beckons to her. “And then I’ll show you somethin’.”

She smiles as she turns her back and steps (backward) to him. “If you’re unlacing my dress, I’m thinking that I’ll be the one showing.”

“Okay,” he laughs. “You first, then. I ain’t objecting.” Deftly he undoes the laces of her dress, and then steps back himself, his gaze still on her, as he pushes up the rolled sleeve of his shirt, where the square of clean white bandage on his inner left forearm is visible again.

Nope, no stripping while Ben Is Injured. “Ben!” she says, after the bit where she turns around and was going to be all seductive. Well, as seductive as Mizzy knows how to be, which really isn’t much so it’s probably for the best that she got diverted. She reaches for his arm, which makes her gown slip slightly off the opposite shoulder.

That does not count as a striptease at all.

“No, no,” he soothes, laughing again. “It’s okay, I ain’t hurt.” He glances at her bare shoulder a little regretfully, and then carefully begins to peel up the square of bandage.

At this point we must hope that Mizzy does not object to tattoos, because that is what her husband has gone and done in his drunken bachelor hijinks with Colson. On his forearm is inked in black a simple silhouette of a tower, like so:

The Ference tower.

It is clearly quite fresh, still red and raised and angry at the edges. He studies it for a moment himself, admiring, and then glances up at Mizzy and knits his brows sheepishly. “Is it … I hope you do not hate it.”

She cocks her head this way and that. “Colson was with you?” Now she looks up at him, and she is Frowning. “He was with you after this was done?”

“Yeah?” Ben winces. He does puppy eyes in preparation for Scolding.

“And he didn’t heal it?!” She hasn’t been this angry since she wanted to feed Sil’s sister to the sharks. “Is there a reason why Mr. High-and-Mighty didn’t deign to heal you?”

Ben blinks at her. This is … not the lecture he was expecting. “Well he — I mean we was … I reckon … Mr Ference got one, and Aunt Nir did not heal it for him straightaway because I guess the point of it is that it’s kind of a … injury? You got to let it take? I dunno if it will … set right if you just heal it?” He raises his eyebrows at her.

She hmphs. It’d be a snort coming from anyone else, but this is Mizzy and she hmphs. “Or she wanted him to suffer a little as she doesn’t approve of tattoos. I don’t know if she does or not, but leaving him to suffer a little is exactly what I would do.”

Or would she? She stops to think about it, looking at his forearm. Gently, carefully, she lifts a finger to stroke well outside the red-and-swollen bit. “It’s fine,” she declares. “It’s a good symbol, and you have so many marks on your body that weren’t by your choice, you should have one that you chose, that stands for something more than survival.”

He ducks his head, his expression warmed by a bashful glow of relief. “I am glad you think that. Because I got — there is another one. If it’s okay.” I mean, a little late now, but okay.

He unbuttons his shirt, fumbling a little (nerves, again?), and shrugs out of it, depositing it on the bed behind him with his waistcoat and tie. On his chest, on his left pectoral, is another square of bandage. He peels this one up gingerly and reveals a second new tattoo. This one is of a sprig of apple blossom.

Apple blossom.

He waits, fidgeting with the bandage cloth, for Mizzy’s verdict.

She enjoys the part where his shirt comes off and is more than willing to stand there all night staring at him. (Well, not all night.) Then she realizes she’s meant to look at the thing on his chest, not at his chest in general.

An apple blossom.

Her hands come up to cover her lips. “Oh,” she says, muffled though it is. “Oh, Ben.” Still muffled. Her brown eyes glisten as they fill with tears. “It’s beautiful. I can’t believe you… No one’s ever …” All muffled, even the audible italics.

He flushes, pleased and shy again, and twists the bandage once more between his fingers before tossing it aside on the bed. “No one ever got a tattoo in your honor? I mean, I hope not, because I would have to fight that fellow. You know me.”

She laughs, still all teary-eyed, and reaches out toward him to hug him. “I do know you,” she says, then stops where she is. “Oh, should I hug … Does it hurt? It looks like it hurts. Poor Ben.”

She means it. He knows her.

He grins at her and steps in to gather her up against his bare chest. “It don’t,” he reassures. “Was a little sore when it was gettin’ done, but not so’s I’d notice now.”

He stoops to kiss her. “Now,” he says low-voiced as he draws away, still smiling, “you gonna get out of that dress, or you need a hand with it still?”