Milan, the Palazzo dell' Aquila
iii Kal. Mai (April 29, 1526)

The night sky was beginning to show the faintest grey haze of approaching dawn when Marius entered his private apartments. His valet came promptly to divest him of his sword, his elegant brocade doublet, and beneath that, the quilted gambeson with its carefully positioned steel plates protecting his heart. Not that this precaution had ever been tested — at least, not since they'd taken Milan. But Jovan was nothing if not cautious, and Marius knew better than to argue.

"Is my lady..." he began, and sensed the mortal's wince. "What is it?"

"She... she's in a mood, m'lord. You might want the gambeson on again."

The attempt at humor did not make Marius smile — Teresa's moods did not make his nights easier. "I'll talk to her... that will be all, Paolo."

The valet bowed. "Yes, my lord." Doublet over one arm, he fled to the relative safety of his lord's wardrobe.

Teresa's bedroom door was ajar; he knocked softly before entering. "My lady...?"

His wife, clad in her dressing gown, sat on a padded stool while her maidservant brushed her hair; a long, lustrous fall of dark silk. She did not turn to look at him. The maid's brushing faltered as she recognized him, uncertain if she should stay and attempt to finish her task, or flee the scene.

Marius approached slowly and held out his hand. "Let me finish that..." he suggested.

"Leave us, Maria," Teresa said, in Castillian. Maria gave a quick curtsey, murmured her good nights, and obeyed, leaving the brush on the chest with her lady's other personal items.

Marius reached for the brush, but Teresa rose from the bench, and strode away from him. "It's late, my lord," she said, not looking at him.

"What's wrong, cara?" he asked.

"I'm sure your Highness has greater affairs on his mind—"

"Teresa."

"Do not use that tone on me!" She whirled around, then, but she still did not meet his eyes.

"Then tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing. I'm sure if something was wrong, I'd be informed of it. If I needed to know."

Marius quelled his own temper with an effort of will, biting back his words...at this point, anything he said would probably only make things worse. Instead, he waited, let the silence hang between them, until she would have no choice to answer him. She could not bear to keep her anger inside for long.

"I heard the Comtesse de Havrecourt was here today," Teresa finally said, her tone forcibly casual. "I had been under the impression that the Comtesse was my responsibility...but apparently I was mistaken—"

"You're not mistaken, my lady. But this was not an ordinary visit..."

"I see. That doubtless explains why she spent two hours with the Contessa instead of with me...or why I was not even informed of her visit?"

Marius hesitated. Thinking fast. "But you obviously were informed—"

"After she had left the palazzo!" Teresa turned away again. "Marius — either trust me to do what you ask me to do, or do not ask me to do it at all! And if I am not worthy of your trust in this—"

"Of course I trust you. You're my wife. I love you."

"But you don't trust me. You...you asked me to handle the Comtesse, to keep an eye on her, keep her occupied and feeling welcome, even though we both know she's not — and then you summon her to the palazzo and you don't tell me anything about—"

"Jovan caught a Camarilla spy this evening," he said bluntly. "A Nosferatu Archon, in fact. Who claimed to be her bodyguard... Did she ever mention such a thing to you?"

"What?! No... no, she didn't. Perhaps...perhaps he's lying—"

"That," he said, as gently as he could, "is what the Contessa was asked to find out."

"And...?"

"She admitted she knew of him, yes."

"You still should have told me..." she muttered.

"Perhaps..." he admitted, "But...I would rather have you be the sympathetic friend of our Camarilla guest, not her interrogator. Let her blame me, or the Contessa, for putting her to the question...at least now if you tell her you had no idea what was going to transpire, she will have to believe you."

Teresa was silent for a moment. Then, "What...what did you do to the spy?"

"Jovan's suggestion was to ship him back to his masters, staked and most likely missing several limbs."

"Jovan," she said dryly, "is such a Tzimisce."

"Yes, he is. What would your advice be, my lady?"

"You're asking me? You've already decided what to do, and done it. What does it matter what I think?"

"It matters to me."

Teresa was silent a moment. "If what I thought mattered so much," she said at last, "you would have called me for my counsel earlier, when it was timely. Now you only want to see if...if I agree with what you've already done, and if I don't, you'll spend what's left of the night trying to explain why you were right and I was wrong. And if my advice matches your decision, you'll think there's no reason why I should still be angry with you."

It was Marius' turn to be silent. Her hurt, her unhappiness echoed back along their bond, and caused his very soul to ache in response. He wished he could see if she felt the same, but there were times he doubted it. Her words were daggers that not even the strongest of steel armor could defend against, and they went straight to his heart.

"I don't want you to be angry with me," he said at last. "But I had to make a decision; I couldn't just throw the bastard into the dungeons until I consulted with my wife!"

"I know!" she snapped back. "I am not saying you should consult — Mario, you are the Prince, stop patronizing me!"

Red haze edged his vision, and he blinked it back, almost trembling with the effort to quench the fire rising in his blood. Teresa, cara, why must it be this way...? "I... I am not.... Teresa, please..."

She must have sensed his rising anger; she backed away, putting the wide expanse of the bed between them. "Mario...don't..."

He took a step forward, and grasped the solid carved bedpost with one hand, turning his head away, concentrating on deep slow breaths, on banishing the symptoms of incipient frenzy. Please, Holy Virgin, don't let this happen, don't let me hurt her... make her understand...

When he looked up again, his vision clear, Teresa was gone. Tendrils of shadows drifted across the tiled floor, swirling in restless eddies by her passing. Marius glared at them and they swiftly retreated into the darkest corners of the room.

Then he turned and left the room for his own chambers, and a cold, lonely bed.

In the last few minutes before the rosy promise of dawn turned to blazing reality, Teresa returned to her bedchamber. Mario, of course, was not there; she could sense his presence on the other end of their apartments, already asleep.

But where he had gripped the bedpost, the carved oak had cracked.

The crack was in her own heart as well. She took off her dressing gown, slipped under cold sheets, and cried herself to sleep.

Cainites of Milan 1526

Alliance of Shadows