Chapter Text
As a teenager, Cassandra used to read a lot of romance novels. When she grew up she didn't stop, only learnt to hide it, at first ashamed and then weirdly excited when she thought of what a contrast it must have been to the everyday image she projected. What a stick in the mud, said one of Anthony's friends about her, and she might have even taken offence if not for the fact that she was too busy reading the new part of The Legend of the Desert People, one of her favourite series. Cold as an iceberg, said one of the rejected suitors, clearly unaware of how much, just the other night, Cassandra was affected by Rudyard and Clementine's fierce coupling.
She loved walking around her quarters with nothing but a shirt on, or even completely naked, posing voluptuously in front of the mirror as if she was preparing for something. She even tried dressing like the heroines of the novels she read, but their outfits had quickly proven to be highly impractical, not to mention that they made her feel as if she was wearing some sort of a weird disguise, all foreign spy like. She had, however, some – more or less tasteful – ideas of how the first night with that one special person would go down. First they would kiss, yellow cornfields stretching far behind them, but then the scenery would change – so, a marble fireplace, clothes quickly falling to the floor, rose petals all around them and so on. It would be passionate but tender at the same time. They would go on all night, even though a night seemed a long time, but Cassandra was in excellent shape and it didn't worry her in the slightest. Alabaster arms, hair spread out on the pillow, all these things.
What she had never imagined was that they would be lying on hay, surrounded by snoring knights and winking at each other conspicuously. That is, Cassandra thought it was conspicuous, but Trevelyan could've as well had something in her eye.
They wouldn't be in that situation if it weren't for her father, who deemed the guest rooms in the tavern unfit for their stay. A compromise was eventually reached, but the damage had already been done – her father was deeply hurt and quite offended, and because it was already too late to set up camp, ultimately they decided on spending the night in a little barn located not far from the tavern.
Cassandra laid her bedroll down on the hay, draping the cloak over herself. Next to her in the dark, Trevelyan was squirming on her blanket, a gently curved shape smelling of herbal oils. In theory it could be someone else lying there, and yet that wouldn't be the same – even the air around them was somehow different.
"I can't imagine mother staying in this place," said Cassandra suddenly.
"Neither can I," admitted Trevelyan.
"Have you ever slept in a barn?"
"It happened once or twice. Our wild Ostwick ways."
Cassandra smiled in spite of herself. There was something endearing about that girl. She stretched out her arm blindly and found Trevelyan's hand, soft and delicate as if she was a scribe. Around them the guardsmen snored, undisturbed.
It was clear that the Duke took the tavern's poor standards as a personal offence, because the next day he set a merciless pace. Cassandra was used to it, but Trevelyan, chatty and beaming in the morning, was becoming less and less talkative with each passing moment. When they finally stopped, she slid down her saddle and walked away in the direction of a stream, dragging her feet. Cassandra helped set up camp, groomed the horses and assigned watches, and after supper she peeked into the tent they shared. Trevelyan was lying there with her cloak folded under her belly, her expression longsuffering.
"Is everything alright? I’ve put aside some potatoes for you."
"Thanks. My unspeakable parts hurt," said Trevelyan. "From the saddle."
Cassandra slipped inside the tent and sat down next to Trevelyan, crossing her legs.
"Couldn't you... you know?" She rubbed her hands together suggestively.
Trevelyan gave her a surprised look, but after a moment something clicked. She warmed her hands up, as if she was preparing to chop wood, and put them to the hurting spot, exhaling a sigh that was downright comical. Cassandra braced herself on her elbows and tilted her head to the side. They didn't have many occasions to spend time alone – it's not like she counted all these hours spent in saddle, accompanied by bored knights, her father and her brother. Not to mention that, when she was in company, Trevelyan put on a civil, pleasant mask, which incidentally also made it boring. Cassandra definitely preferred the uncurbed, private version of her. Had her father known that side of Trevelyan, he would have never insisted that Cassandra watched her that closely.
Trevelyan, unaware of Cassandra's musings, rolled onto her back and wiggled her fingers. "Healing hands," she joked. Cassandra had noticed by now that she had a tendency to use humour as a way to ease the tension or diminish her own accomplishments. As much as that first use sometimes worked, the second one was completely unnecessary.
"If I were to be honest, I remain highly impressed with your skills," she said, choosing the right words carefully. "Almost everyone could learn how to pummel people with a sword, but this... this is unique."
"You're flattering me, aren't you?" asked Trevelyan.
Cassandra shook her head. "No! It's not flattery, I really think so. It's just that I never know how to say it right..."
Trevelyan looked embarrassed and Cassandra scolded herself internally. One could think that with such extensive knowledge of romantic tropes she would be better at this, but coming up with appropriate words was always difficult for her. She was much better at other things.
She closed the distance between them and covered Trevelyan with her body. Her mouth was soft, her neck velvety and her leg supple when it came around Cassandra's waist eagerly. She also had a tendency to make encouraging sounds; perhaps a little too loud, because suddenly someone outside coughed and spat. It probably wasn't even about them, but it brought them down to earth all the same.
Trevelyan froze with both hands on Cassandra's shoulders, her expression slightly panicked.
"That saddle still bothering you?" asked Cassandra, sliding out of her embrace, her voice heavy with care.
"Looks like it," said Trevelyan, fiddling nervously with the hem of her shirt. "I think it's because of my posture. Maybe you could help me find the mistakes and correct them?"
"It would be my pleasure. As soon as we get home."
When the night finally came, she couldn't stop herself. After some fifteen minutes spent on anxious staring at Trevelyan's back, she scooted closer and threw one arm over her waist. When Trevelyan shifted, still asleep, Cassandra slipped one careful hand underneath her nightshirt and touched that place between her side and her hip.
She was finally starting to understand why some people called sleeping with someone carnal knowledge. Her own desire could also be characterised as curiosity – she wanted to know what the curvy, feminine Trevelyan looked like naked, how she behaved when someone pleasured her, how she arched her spine, what shape her mouth was, how would it feel to touch her thighs, her buttocks. She would catch herself thinking about that when she watched Trevelyan doing everyday things, like putting on shoes or getting off the horse. Her mother often said that mystery was the key to desire – and she herself put a lot of effort into keeping her father from solving that mystery. They slept in separate quarters and she never let anyone beside her handmaid see her without make up on. Even Cassandra saw her without it, and in nothing but underwear, only once, when there was a big storm at night and everyone had to take cover in the wine cellar. Still, being near Trevelyan, if anything, only boosted her desire to a level she could barely control.
Cassandra didn't care for the appeal of mystery. She had caused a scandal back when she first started going for her early morning swim in the lake, but soon everyone got so used to it she didn't even have to flush anyone out from the bushes anymore, which happened at the beginning once or twice. She was nothing if not utilitarian about her body and didn't even realise how used it was until Trevelyan put it back to its original state. She was beginning to think that the origins of her fascination with Trevelyan had its roots in that first, primal connection they shared, physical from the very beginning.
Coming back home meant separation and she realised that for the first time in many years she wasn't in a hurry to go back. Her father, however, was – they entered the courtyard by the end of the day, bringing the almost dormant manor back to life.
She was putting her dragon armour back on the rack in their private armoury when she noticed that Anthony was giving her weird looks secretively.
"Have you caught an exotic disease of some sort or is there something you want to tell me?"
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, leaning against the cabinet with gala gambesons.
"That Mistress of the arcane of ours really is something, isn't she?"
"She really is," admitted Cassandra, knowing exactly what he was getting at and trying to steer the conversation away from that particular topic. "She is incredibly talented for her age. It is an excellent addition to our team."
"It is an excellent addition, indeed. It's a shame it's a bit biased though, as it evidently prefers some of us to others."
"It looks like the move you tried to put on her was the same one you try with every poor girl that happens to be within fifty feet from you and, as always, you failed."
"Good thinking with that book." Anthony wouldn't be put off his stroke. "I wouldn't have thought of that, but it looks like it worked."
"Don't beat around the bush." Cassandra turned on her heel, unable to keep her cool any longer. "And save these stupid remarks for your friends."
"I'm just messing with you, Cass. I'm also worried about you."
"About me?" she snorted and sat down to take her boots off. "That is really unnecessary. I'm an adult and I know how to think for myself."
"That I don't doubt. Do you remember though, how it ended the last time when a mage was involved?"
She lifted her head to glare at him. Anthony was giving her a concerned look.
"That is not the same case. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place, remember?"
"I do remember, it's just I'm not sure if you do."
"There is nothing to talk about."
"Just promise me you'll back down before you get yourself into something again."
"Out of the two of us I am the good one, Tony."
Anthony just smiled at her knowingly.
She didn't see Trevelyan until the next day, and when she finally did stumble upon her, she pressed her briefly into the draperies in the antechamber.
"If you want to meet me this evening," she said, holding the stupefied Trevelyan by the chin, "leave your window open."
The impression most people had of Cassandra Pentaghast was truly inadequate.