*Declan*

        The intricately-carved high back of the throne pressed uncomfortably against his spine. Declan shifted, trying to get that obnoxious wooden rose out of his ribcage. He wasn't made to rule, and he wasn't made to just sit around, and acting as Elizabeth's regent required him to do both. 

        His fingers itched to hold a sword, to attack someone or something. He wanted to do something productive, something other than listening to people's troubles and sending them to other people who would–presumably–fix the problems for him. In fact, he hardly had to do that. Elizabeth's councillors–those remaining, anyway–did most of the talking. He just sat there, looking imposing.

        All Declan actually did was welcome newcomers to court, and, with the queen gone, not many nobles cared to crawl to the capital if there was no chance of currying royal favor. 

        "Lady Fairchild," the herald called, and Declan rose to great the wife of the ailing councillor and archivist. 

        But the woman who came down the Great Stair was not what Declan had expected. Given Lord Fairchild's age, he'd expected the old man's sixth wife to be older, mid-thirties, maybe, at the end of her child-bearing years. 

        He had not expected a beautiful young creature, tiny, delicate, with golden-brown curls mostly loose down her back, with the front strands pulled back from her heart-shaped face. He had not expected a girl of about sixteen, with apple-blossom skin and huge hazel eyes, dressed in a low-cut, off-the-shoulder, forest green samite gown.

        At the foot of the dais she dropped into a deep curtsy, her skirts pooling around her like the petals of a huge green flower. Declan was acutely aware of the eyes of nearly every man in the room oggling the expanse of white bosom left visible as her bodice tightened with the movement. 

        "My Lord Regent," she said. Her voice was husky and seductive, rich, warm caramel on the cold winter morn. "Lord Councillors." Those hazel eyes flicked to Declan's face and her lips curled into a cool smile. 

        "Welcome to court, my lady," Declan said, unaware that he was scowling. "May I offer my condolences regarding your husband's convalescence."

      Thank you," Lady Fairchild purred, her eyes narrowing. "For your welcome, and your condolences." She curtsied again, not as deep, and stepped to the side, taking her place among the other nobles in attendance. 

        That evening, Declan sat in his office, reading through a letter from Lord Tam, whose holdings were comprised, mostly, of southern swamplands. Tam requested more soldiers to guard the realm against the sudden increase in attacks from the Reynish imperial forces, looking to add Valoria to their ever-growing list of conquests. 

        Declan saw no reason to deny him the men–at least, no valid reason, except the rumors of the true identity of his new squire. These rumors led him to believe that Tam might be raising an army, but he had no proof, and someone had to defend Valoria against any attempts at invasion, and House Tam had been doing that for centuries. 

        He sighed and began to draft a letter of assent. His pen nib scratched incessantly against the parchment, a sound that had become as familiar as his own names. The draft done, he sent a page off with it, to carry it to the palace scribes. 

        The next letter in the pile was an invitation to the Fairchild townhouse, from Lady Fairchild, inviting him to supper. He frowned, and set it down, glancing out his office window. 

        The sun, peeking out from behind the omnipresent snowclouds, was setting over the Sunsea river, and Declan decided he could do with some time spent outside the palace walls.

        He threw a cloak over his shoulders and left the palace. It was only a few minutes walk from the Winter Gates, so Declan turned down the offer of an escort.

        The Fairchild townhouse was small, the smallest on its block, but well-kept and pretty, with large grounds and tidy gardens. High brick walls separated it from the city, creating an isolated paradise, completely apart from the choas of the capital.

        A footman met him at the door, took his cloak and showed Declan into a simple sitting room. Hangings adorned the walls, all in bright, cheerful shades. Plush sofas and armchairs, mismatching, were scattered about the room. A cheery fire crackled in the hearth, casting a flickering glow up the walls. 

        Lady Fairchild sat before the fire, her hair done in a simple chignon, wearing a plain white gown, stitched with gold, a maiden's gown, not that of married woman, for maidens wore pale colors to represent their purity, and wives had given their virtue to their husbands, and by tradition wore darker colors. 

        A young boy sat at her feet, a puppy dancing around his crossed legs. He had his mother's sandy hair and was clothed in yards and yards of lace and silk. 

        The footman cleared his throat, and Lady Fairchild turned. Her eyebrows arched, and the footman bowed and scurried from the room. The Lady rolled her eyes, and smiled down at her son and said, "Raph, run along now, it's past your bedtime." 

        The little boy scrambled to his feet, kissed his mother on the cheek, standing on tiptoe to reach. Then he skipped from the room, his puppy trailing at his heels.

        "Captain," Lady Fairchild said, standing and coming around the chair to greet her guest. She offered a delicate hand, and Declan brought it to his lips, murmuring, "Lady Fairchild." 

        The woman smiled, and guided him to one of the divans, taking a delicate seat beside him. "My Lord Regent, I'm delighted that you accepted my invitation. I confess, I was almost certain you would be too busy." 

        "I was a bit surprised that you'd be hosting guests, my lady, your husband being, well, in the condition that he is," Declan said carefully, drawing away from the woman. 

        "Oh, do call me Aileanna," she said, dimpling prettily. "Lady Fairchild sounds so formal!" She giggled, a little, trilling laugh that made Declan shiver.

        Just then, the door opened, and a maid stuck her head through the door. Lady Fairchild saw immediately, and stood, clapping her hands. "Oh, look!" she exclaimed. "I believe our supper is ready!" She swept from the room, pausing to motion for Declan to follow. 

        He did, acutely aware of the way she'd avoided his questions. He didn't like this Lady Fairchild, and he didn't trust her. 

        Their supper was laid out in a small private dining room, and Lady Fairchild took a seat on one side, leaving Declan to take the seat opposite her. She poured him a goblet of golden wine, and then did the same for herself. 

        Their meal was already set out on the table, and a pair of footmen served them both slices of pheasant, mashed potatoes sprinkled liberally in truffle shavings, stewed greens fried in a saffron sauce, and more. 

        Declan frowned. House Fairchild was not wealthy, their townhouse was proof enough of that, and yet Lady Fairchild dressed more finely than Elizabeth, and this meal was made of costly ingredients, and greens were near impossible to find in the capital in the winter, and even more so in the northlands where House Fairchild had its seat. 

        The marriage between Lord Fairchild and Lady Aileanna, a merchant's get, had been made for money, but Declan was fairly certain even her dowry hadn't brought in much more than enough to pay off the family's debts. Unless... unless Lady Fairchild's father was wealthier than Declan had realized. 

        Throughout the meal, Lady Fairchild chattered aimlessly, and Declan found himself wishing he had stayed at the palace. The meal was too rich, the servants too uneasy, and Lady Fairchild was just another woman trying to seduce him. 

A/N: Hey, guys! Another update, and on schedule, too!  Who's proud of me? Anyways, I might not always update on time between now and the middle of February. I've started rehearsals for a One Act play, called the Madhouse, and it's the world premiere of that particular play!! So we're all working pretty hard on that, plus I've got finals in about two weeks, and it's the holidays so everything is crazy. 

I'll try my best, but look at it this way: it takes me about a week to write a chapter, if I write a bit each night, but I don't necessarily write each night, so it's always a struggle for me on Saturdays, because of things like homework, and exam studying, and rehearsal. 

So besides that, please vote/comment and tell me what you think.