Work Text:
Boredom leaving welts across her mind, Irene breathes on the bedroom window and wipes away the condensation. Breathes. Wipes. Sighs. The ice wastes stretch flat to the horizon.
If I weren’t queen, she thinks, and then, as she always does, but I am.
She turns to Kate. Sing for me.
I haven’t warmed up, Kate protests from the seat of the vanity, holding an opalescent box of pigment in one hand and dabbing colour along her cheekbones with the other. She tilts her face to catch the light. Her copper hair shines. I won’t be any good.
Irene rearranges the folds of her silk robe and reties the sash at her waist. Darling, I’m bored enough to go south and poke that emotionally constipated detective with a stick until bees come out. Sing.
A crop, Kate says, settling the pigment on the marble of the vanity.
What?
You wouldn’t use a stick. You’d use a crop.
Yes, Kate, I would, but the fact remains that I am bored. Irene settles onto the white furs draped over their bed. Sing. Please.
Kate breathes deep and sings high and pure and blade-keen, her voice like ice around branches, like frost hard over grass. The melody burns Irene, threatens to find her resonant frequency and shatter her into a thousand melting fragments.
It’s brilliant.