A Loom of Years

Twentyseventh Weaving
@Anne E. Fraser 2006

"But why can't I go to the party?"

Olivia was feeling much better. The doctor had applied more salve and reduced the bandaging to one small piece of gauze and some tape, and had permitted her to walk around her room and up and down a small section of corridor to get her legs back in working order.

She could just hear the strains of music drifting through the villa, coming from the magnificent gardens. There would be wine, and dancing, and laughter; food and music and pretty clothes, and she couldn't go and join in. The meeting must be over; it seemed to have been rather a short one, and now it was time to have some fun before everyone had to go back home. It was too late now, too close to hazardous dawn, to start journeys tonight. The Princes would relax and unwind at the party.

It was so unfair.

"I shall fetch your husband to manage you," the doctor warned her.

She laughed at the mere thought. "Blaine denies me nothing."

"Yes, and look what that earned you," said the doctor, sounding rather like Carmine.

She hung her head.

_____

Blaine did his duty manfully at the party, dancing with Genevieve, with Kalonice, with quiet little Zalyina, even with Paula. He noted that Siena, Carmine's scarred female bodyguard, had vanished early along with young Owen. Scamps.

Rodrigo and Monique had both bypassed the party. Blaine decided he preferred to think the two least popular Princes were sulking in separate rooms rather than doing anything intimate with each other in the same room. That thought did not bear entertaining. Wilhelm, however, was dancing with each female Prince in turn, although his gaze occasionally rested on Orsino Fonti, Carmine's other mage. The one who wasn't named Nicco and permanently seven years old. Oh-ho.

Well, Wilhelm had been Lothar's lover... although it seemed, at least from first impressions, that he was not much like Lothar. He seemed to have a functioning brain. Odd, that.

"I am quite devastated, Uncle Blaine."

Genevieve's amused voice cut through Blaine's musings.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked her.

"Your mind is elsewhere," she said, teasing him. "You have not even admired my gown."

Slightly terrified, he let himself look at said gown. It looked like any other gown, although it was very pretty.

"Very pretty," he said.

"What colour is it?" Gen challenged, covering his eyes.

"Er... blue."

"Lucky guess." She took her hand away from his face and gave him a kiss. "You have done your duty, none can complain you have neglected the ladies here. Now go to your own lady, who is no doubt sulking."

"Olivia doesn't sulk."

"Bet you ten Euros?"

Blaine laughed, gave her a kiss back, and strode towards the exit from the gardens. He asked Uberto to make his excuses to Carmine, and headed for the British suite in the villa.

He found Olivia sitting up, looking quite lovely in a fresh nightgown and a much smaller bandage, looking at fashion magazines.

"Darling," she looked up and smiled at him. "Will you buy me some Versace?"

"Versace, Armani, whatever designer you desire," Blaine replied.

She tossed the magazine on the floor and opened her arms. "Blaine," she said simply.

He folded himself into her embrace. "Olivia. Dear God. If I had lost you..."

"Shh. You didn't. And I have learned my lesson. How was the party?"

"Dull as ditch water without you."

"Did you dance with Gen?"

"Yes. She challenged me to name the colour of her gown."

"Oh, what a wretch she is," Olivia laughed. "You didn't even notice, did you?"

"How did you know?"

"You never notice what colour I'm wearing."

"I will from now on, I swear."

"No, don't let this change us. Don't let it change you. I love you..."

His lips stopped hers from saying anything more for a minute or two, and his hands started exploring her body through the admittedly thin fabric of her gown.

"I say," he said, looking at her. "You're not wearing anything underneath this."

"It is a nightgown, Blaine." She glanced at his tuxedo. "You are wearing far too many clothes."

"This is a hospital bed," Blaine complained. "It's rather narrow. I'm not sure it's physically possible to..."

They managed.

_________

The plane touched the ground safely at London City Airport.

"Home sweet home," Blaine said. He glanced at his wife. "You can let go now."

She slowly pried her fingers off his arm. "Sorry, darling."

The pilot taxied to a stop and let the stairs down. "We have the all-clear from your security, sir," she addressed Blaine.

"You're certain of that?" Olivia asked.

"Yes," the pilot replied with a slight smile.

Blaine held tightly to Olivia's hand as they descended the stairs. And there, waiting for them, were Tess, Diccon, and several of the wolves.

"So," Tess said to her Prince and his consort once she had them safely in the limo, "how was Italy?" They had been informed, of course, of Olivia's wounding and the execution of the one who had caused it. But small talk covered awkward situations well.

"Lovely as always," Olivia replied.

"Despite a small hitch or two," Blaine added.

"But it's good to be home."

"Yes. Anything happen while we were gone?"

"Nothing remarkable, sir. All quiet and well."

Olivia leaned back, put her head on Blaine's shoulder, and smiled.

"Well, we're back home now," she said. "It won't stay quiet long."

One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

The End

Thanks are due to the scribe Majkia for the loans of Carmine Abrizzi and Niccolo Tieri. And a special note of appreciation to Alfred Noyes for his lovely poem "A Loom of Years" which gave me my title and the idea to call my chapters "weavings".