The Queue for Ilgnuit's Face-Flattening

‘Dinner’ was over. Or rather, the verbal carnage that had been dinner, and the rage that had been flung from one side of the table to the other. And there was that unfortunate platter incident.

Ilgnuit remained, awaiting Julius’ escort. The Advisor had paused to finish her tea, letting Elwena walk on ahead of her, and after replacing it in the teacup, she turned to saunter out of the room.

“I half expected your support, you know,” he commented as he brushed one fingertip across the back of a chair, and rubbed forefinger and thumb together.
“You owe me.”

She stopped and turned, slowly, with one hand rising to her hip. One brow arched, and her expression looked less than impressed. “Excuse me?” she answered, taking two near-casual steps back the way she had come. Like opposite ends of the primary chessboard – he in his Valenti blue, she in her rubies and brocade. Both dressed for finery and delicate chatter.

“I caught you, when you fell,” he reminded her. “When you drove that poor, confused woman to suicide.” He began walking forwards, a slow sneer beginning to grace his lips. He spoke whilst walking – first towards her, and then circling. As though he thought himself a predator. What a farce – the brat was dead, he just happened to still breathe presently. “I found my mother. I’ve helped you more than once. And there was once a time you enjoyed my touch,” he paused and lifted a hand to brush the backs of his fingertips over the juncture of her jaw and cheek. “Remember?”

Her smirk made him momentarily triumphant. He had another flush of it. Perhaps he’d get to sample the recently named Lady Alexston tonight, since his own wife proved so ironically frigid when she was in these hysterical moods.

He felt yet more emboldened by realising she was leaning in. Empowered, even, by the proximity of perfume, and lip-paint by his ear. “Ilgnuit, darling,” she answered. “You’re far too forgettable for me to remember.”

His expression stiffened, and as she drew away from him, his temper ran away with him. A tantrum was imminent. He snatched hold of her forearm as she turned to go.

Her eyes met with a pair by the door – Elwena waited. Watched, even. And once she realised just what was happening, instantly left her post by the door in a rush to prevent the Prince doing any enraged damage to the Advisor. Julius did much the same, steel scrape sounding in response to a perceived threat – Royal or not, laying a hand on the Queen’s woman was the beginning of violence.

As endearing as that bold rush was, it proved unnecessary. As Ilgnuit forcibly pulled Mereavus back towards him, he unwittingly added force to the ruby-laden knuckles that were whirling directly up towards his face.

Metal and jewel collided with his nose and cheekbone with a vicious crack. The second Prince reeled, hand flying to his mouth whilst the other splayed out before him to catch his fall. He pulled his hand away, staring in mute shock at the red now not only smudging from his nose, but dripping, too.

The Advisor slid a handkerchief from her bodice, lifting her knuckles to wipe off any transfer from the collision. Calm as a cup of water. “My husband sends his regards, your Highness,” she commented. “I’m sure he’s disappointed he could see you, particularly presently. Do his Highness a favour and take him for that protection his brother requested, would you, Descartes, darling? I think he needs it.”

And she went to finish what she’d been doing before – namely, rejoining Elwena.