"We need to get more onions tomorrow," he said, and passed her the last piece of gingerbread.
***
Two years later the second chamberlain's wife died of a wracking cough. She said the cough was nothing until the end, until she couldn't hide the red-brown drenched handkerchiefs any longer and blood streamed out of her mouth with every breath she took. In the days before she slipped into a sleep she never woke from David's nurse never left her side. David learned how to cook eggs and brew tea and tried to wash the sheets. The chamberlain's wife said it was fine that they ended up with holes in them. He heard her say, "The King never asks about him?" in a whisper-cracked voice to his nurse toward the end of her last day.
"No," his nurse said. "The poor little love. Almost grown and what will happen to him then?”
"Does he ever ask? About anything?"
"He used to ask about his father. But never about anything else."
"Odd," the chamberlain's wife said, and her voice was a wheeze now, a creaky wind whisper.
"He asked me what a curse was once but then never brought it up again. Never asked another question. He's a strange one, you know. Just drifts along like he's asleep."
"Who does he have to wake up for?" his nurse said, and her voice was sad.
David rested his head against the window and watched the cup of tea he was holding freeze in his hands. He hugged his nurse when the chamberlain's wife breathed her last breath. Her tears rolled down her face in freezing cold rivulets, fell as tiny pieces of ice that shattered as soon as they hit the floor.
Joseph met them in the forest. Night was falling and he was walking home, a stag slung over his shoulders and dripping blood down over his coat. He was whistling. He stopped when he saw them, two well-dressed figures appearing out of the woods right in front of him, mounted on horses that hadn't ever known hunger.
"You've been hunting," one of the figures said, he dropped to his knees, looking at the ground.
There was nothing to see but white, nothing to feel but cold.
"Look at my sister when she's addressing you," another voice said, deeper but a twin to the first one, and he looked up.
He knew who she was as soon as he saw her. His mother's sister had journeyed to the cathedral to pray for the safe return of her daughter, who'd decided to follow a prophet who'd decreed that the world would end unless the faithful journeyed West and visited a sacred spring. His cousin never returned and all his aunt had were stories of her own travels, of the great glass windows in the cathedral, of the priests' soft hands and the oil they used for anointing. Of the Princess and the Prince, who she'd seen at an afternoon service, sitting together with their heads bowed throughout. "So beautiful," his aunt had said. "The Princess--it's like the very stars of heaven shine through her. And the Prince! Oh my," and here her voice had gone fluttery and she'd paused, pressed one hand over her heart and shared a knowing smile with his mother. He hadn't said anything but thought that his cousin's certain death had loosened his aunt's mind. No one shone like the stars.
He was wrong. The Princess did, glowed golden sitting on her horse, dressed in furs and jewels, hair streaming out around her with diamonds woven through it. Her eyes were enormous and dark, soft with an emotion he couldn't name, and her skin wasn't pitted from disease or gray from hunger. Her cheeks were flushed a gentle pink and the rest of her, forehead to the slash of skin that showed where her furs overlapped, was the softest, warmest color he'd ever seen. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful.
She smiled then, a gentle curve of her mouth. "Stand up and tell me who you are."
He did. "My name is Joseph," he said. "I'm a woodsman, Your Highness." Looking at her was making him dizzy so he bowed to her and then turned, bowed to the person riding beside her.
He knew at once it was her brother. They did not have similar faces--her brother's was sharper, longer, his eyes bright where hers were dark -- but there was no way they could be anything but siblings. He had the same glow she did, the same look in his eyes.
"You're a hunter," the Prince said. His voice was low and soft, as golden as his skin. The woodsman actually felt his words rush over him, soothing and exciting at the same time. He wondered if he was about to die. Hunting was illegal except for those of noble birth and blood.
He looked at the Prince. The Prince was watching him, eyes bright.
Joseph nodded, and the Prince smiled.
"We won't keep you," the Princess said, and her voice was softer now, warm and low, a caress of words. Joseph looked at her and knew he'd do anything to have her speak to him in that voice again. "Do you live close by?"
"In the village," he said. "In the house with the mark of the stag on the door." He flushed then, saw how the Prince and Princess had turned away from him, were looking at each other. He wanted them to look at him again but knew, somehow, that they wouldn't. He walked home.
"I'll send a summons," the Prince said on the ride back.
"For me?" the Princess said.
"Greedy," the Prince said, laughter in his voice, and smiled at her in perfect understanding.
***
Joseph was summoned to see the Princess, but before he saw her he was told he had to meet with the Prince. He rubbed his sweaty hands along his best trousers and nodded, watched the guards who had escorted him into the castle stare at him blankly, their eyes giving nothing away.
The Prince was waiting for him in his rooms. "I'm shocked she wants to see you," he said. "But I can deny her nothing. She's my sister, my heart, and I love her. But she is not to be trifled with.
Do you understand?"
"I would never--" Joseph said, aghast. "Not ever, Your Highness. I don't know why she would want to talk to me. I don't know what she wants from me."
"But you have hopes," the Prince said, and smiled. "I see them written all over your face."
"I don't--"Joseph said and then broke off, silenced as the Prince moved forward and touched the back of his hand to Joseph's face.
"You realize," he said, "that I want to make my sister happy. It's very important that she be happy."
Afterwards, he helped Joseph straighten his clothes before he went to see the Princess. "That was…you are," Joseph said and reached eager hands out, swept them down across the Prince's golden skin. His eyes shone hot and longing. "I want to stay with you."
"So sweet," the Prince said and yawned, stretching naked into Joseph's hands. He watched Joseph's eyes heat more and then smiled quickly, a sharp flash of teeth. He moved away and said, "She's waiting for you."
The Princess sat surrounded by attendants when Joseph walked in. He knelt down and touched his head to the floor. "I'm so glad you came," she said, her voice rich and warm. Knowing. "You may rise."
He did, and looked at her. She smiled and told her attendants to leave her. She said she had to discuss a hunt she was planning for her brother.
"It has to be perfect," she said as her attendants were leaving. "I only want the very best for my brother."
In the silence of the room she watched him, the space between them. "I suppose you thought you didn't want to leave him," she said, and her voice was still rich and warm.
"I don't--I don't understand," Joseph said.
"Of course you do," the Princess said, and leaned back against the chaise she was reclining on. "I wouldn't have summoned you if you didn't." She closed her eyes and ran one fingertip down her neck, between the valley of her breasts, down over her stomach. Her skirts parted. Her skin was as golden as her brother's, as smooth.
"Come here," she said.
Joseph did.
He was sent away afterwards, dismissed as she arched and stretched and told him he was wonderful, powerful, and that he should not forget to close the door behind him when he left.
When he arrived home his house looked cramped and small and the smell of smoke and dung bothered him. His family seemed coarse and gray, nothing but shadows. The woods held no interest for him but he walked through them, hoping. He hunted, because he knew it was what had drawn them to him, and waited. When another summons came, he went. He went and drowned in skin and touch. Back home again and he attended mass, listened to sermons about evil, about hell and what would take him there. Everything he'd done was listed. He listened and didn't care. No one knew what he did. He thought of the Prince, hands fisted in his hair and golden body wrapped around his, cock in his mouth and legs squeezing him tight. He thought about the Princess, hair flowing down around her back and spilling over his hands as their bodies worked together. He thought of his mouth between her legs, of seeing the bright flushed core of her arching towards him. He knew all of these things and no one else sitting in church with him did or ever would. He felt mighty. He felt like a King. He liked the feeling.
***
He knew she faded. David could see it, had watched his nurse grow smaller and thinner for years, shrinking from pain and age. He sat next to her when she lay huddled in bed, covers piled up around her and her eyes clouded with agony. She spoke of faraway times, of places and people he didn't know but that she recalled. Sometimes she called him by a name that wasn't his, asked about a cat they didn't have or lowered her voice to gossip about the Queen, about how eleven months had passed and still her babe rested inside her. He knew which Queen she spoke of and thought of questions. He never asked them.
She opened her eyes one afternoon and he knew she saw him because she told him to change his shirt and asked him when he'd last eaten, clucking her tongue when he said he wasn't sure. "You have to remember to do those things," she said. "You're all grown up now."
"I don't--I don't know what that means," he said, and watched as she looked at him, a patient loving smile on her face. "I mean, I do, but I don't--I don't know what to feel. How to--"
"Oh love," she said. "You'll know one day, I'm sure of it."
Each day she slept more and more, fitful slumbers where her body would shake for hours, her eyes flying open glazed over with pain and always staring at something he couldn't see. When she was awake a scullery maid would sometimes come to visit, sit shyly eating gingerbread and talking about a town David didn't know but his nurse did. The maid didn't seem to like him--she always turned red when he looked at her and her voice rose and shook whenever he tried to speak to her-- but the third time his nurse shook from early morning into afternoon he found her and said he was sorry to bother her, that he needed her help. She flushed so red he'd stared at her, entranced by the color in her face.
She tried to say something but her voice came out as a startled squeak. "I'm very sorry," he told her again and took a step back, hoping that would make her smile, ensure that she'd help him.
"But I need onions."
"Onions," the maid said, and her voice was still a little startled but different somehow. He liked the sound of it. "Is that all?" She moved closer and he stared at her shaking raw red hands. She smelled like potatoes. He loved potatoes, loved wrapping them up and baking them in coals, the hot earth smell of them filling the room. He smiled and moved a little closer, trying to think of something to say to her. He thought it would be nice to talk to someone.
"A lot of onions," he said, and dared to touch her hand. "As many as you can get. My nurse--
they'll make her better." The scullery maid stared at him.
"Oh," she said, and another expression crossed her face. This one David knew. He saw it on most people's faces when they looked at him. He wasn't surprised when she drew her hand away, stared down at it with wide eyes. He knew she wouldn't bring him any onions.
After that, he started sleeping on the floor by his nurse's bed. He stopped when ice began to coat the floor, growing in time with her pained cries. He piled more blankets on her and sat leaning into an old cane chair, afraid to close his eyes. He watched the blankets rise and fall and wished he knew what to do.
"He killed her," she said in the middle of the night, and her voice was loud and strong and young.
"That baby killed her. Did you see her face when she saw him? Did you hear what she said? I want to go home. It's not an honor to be here! And if it is, why don't you be his nurse? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken like that to you, my lady. Please don't hit me again. It's just that I don't want to be his nurse. I told you so before he was even born, remember? So please, please--I know he's just a baby! But I don't--I don't want to die."
She started to shake then, convulsive moments that shook the bed. "It hurts," she said, and her voice had faded again, become the one he knew. He went over to the bed and knelt by her side.
He was careful to keep his hands off the bed, away from her.
"I was young," she said when the shaking stopped. "Young and scared. Your mother, dying like that--all the blood, those pieces of mirror everywhere so all you could see was her lying on the floor. I was there when the witch woman told your mother about you, you know. I was there, waiting for you to be born, and when she told your mother what she knew I wanted to go home so badly. But I wasn't allowed to and then you were born. You were such a strange baby, so silent, too beautiful. And all that snow, that started the day you were born, got worse every time you cried---we all knew what you could do. What you were doing. They had to tie me to a chair to feed you the first few weeks. It was the only way I would..." She started to shake again. It was a long time until she stopped. He stayed kneeling by her side, feeling the floor slick and cold under his knees, the stones cracking as layers of ice bloomed across them.
"I'm tired," she said when she'd stilled again. Her voice was a faint whisper he could barely hear.
"Take my hand, please."
He did. "I'm sorry," he said. Her skin was warm, so warm, but it chilled as he held it, a blue tinge creeping across it. "I don't mean to do it. I would make it stop if I could."
"Oh love," she said. "I know you would." Her eyes closed. He knew they would never open again.