The Duke In His Castle by Vera Nazarian

chamberpot in one hand and himself in the other, he watches the arc of his urine and thinks of what else comes out with a more rhythmic violence. His body is unblemished and healthy, and he is bursting with the life force.
    Does he not prove it sufficiently, last night? If not, then what exactly does he prove? What has been done?
    Mind continues to spin, a child’s top that is incapable of stopping.
    In addition to all the other clamor in his mind he also knows that now he will be expected to test the boundary of his castle. And imagining the ordeal ahead of him, he tarries, while a gnawing sickly fear commences working at his insides.
    Whatever has been done, the world is changed in a plurality—his world. For when change comes, it comes on its own terms, and with a retinue.
    At some point Harmion knocks politely on the bedchamber door, reminding His Grace not only of a cold breakfast, but of a certain annoyance called the Duchess of White waiting for him. No mention is made of Nairis, and indeed at the thought of her whatever is burrowing in his gut takes a deeper wrenching bite.
    The Duke of Violet mutters as he quickly dresses himself without assistance, his actions punctuated by stabbing thoughts. She is, she lives, I gave her life. . . .
    And then, What will happen now? She is. She lives. At which point does she become mine or cease being mine?
    Every motion he makes, it seems she hovers nearby, Nairis.
    Down a flight of narrow stairs he descends from his personal sleeping quarters, and Janerizel, the eccentric Duchess of White, stands waiting outside his study. She is dressed exactly as the previous day, in her self-mocking outfit.
    He stops in sudden consternation, while color surges in his cheeks and as quickly recedes. For, now he is fading, and his cheeks are fading, and his breath has become faint as he watches her. There is no reason this should be happening, the Duke thinks. And yet, it does.
    The Duchess looks at him with her great weird eyes. She is waiting for something. He hardly notices that her right hand carelessly twirls a rose blossom on a long stem, a cut procured from his castle’s gardens. Instead, he is looking at her rosebud mouth.
    She steps forward, cheerful in tone, but her expression remains strange. As a proper lady would, out of blue-blood habit, she offers her hand. “Good morning, my Lord Rossian.”
    He is not sure why, but his first reaction is to jerk away from her. Fortunately, his control (shattered so badly the night before, three o’clock past midnight) is now again at his disposal, and he is able to remain impassive and endure the proximity.
    Why endure? What in the world makes me think this way, instead of —
    In order to see what he is capable of in the here and now, the Duke touches her hand in elegant politeness, and doing so he cringes inside. Continuing to cringe, he takes her hand and holds it. Then, as deep-inbred etiquette demands, he raises it to his lips. The hallway seems to press down on him, stifling with permanent dusk, here where there are no windows to reveal the daylight. The outside of her hand is a cool shock against his lips.
    “And to you, Lady. Good morning. My apologies for my tardiness out of bed this morning.”
    His words are smooth and faultless as ever they can be, and yet in a new peculiar way they are kind toward the Duchess, as though he has decided to forgo his rude sarcasm that he saves for his unwanted guests. Indeed, words seem overly easy, and he considers them as they issue forth. He listens to himself, listens for any indication of change .
    She too appears to be remarkably understanding. “No apologies necessary. You were exhausted by yesterday’s extraordinary efforts. It’s well known that the arcane acts drain the spirit and the flesh immensely. In fact, you must partake of food as soon as possible to restore yourself for what lies ahead. Oh . . . and how is she, Nairis?”
    The Duke is suddenly bloodless, cold, and can