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Sybil listened to the whisper of her taffeta dress on the floor. The house was otherwise surprisingly quiet as she walked from her dressing room to Samuel's. The dress was a very pretty bronze and golden blue. She wanted something to match Sam's uniform, and the tailors simply didn't sell anything closer to faded rust.
She stopped in front of the door and adjusted the folded sleeves that had fallen off her shoulders. She felt a little foolish. She was married, she had already won the biggest prize of her life, and she didn’t have to do this. But right now she wanted to, and as her friend Havelock kept telling her, that was all that really mattered.
She knocked to announce herself, then entered the changing room. So far, Samuel had managed to put on his tunic and a padded vest over it, Sybil didn’t know its name, but she knew he wore it under his armor instead of his chainmail shirt. He looked up. Then glanced at her and smiled warmly without saying anything.
He loved her so loudly sometimes. To drown out all the sounds of the city. And she had always thought it was so little, just a tiny part of his life. But right now she couldn’t hear the city, or the dragons in pens, or the cops. Only her own pounding heart.
And yes, there was the rustle of fabric as Samuel, hopping on one leg, tore his stockings.
“Whoops,” he said apologetically.
Sybil sighed. Then with one hand she swept away yards and yards of crinoline and cotton and taffeta until she bared her thigh. She turned toward Sam so he could see her white stockings and a new garter, the same bronze fabric with a buckle. If you squinted really hard, it looked a bit like a watchman's badge.
Some people mistakenly thought that Sam was a simple creature—easily tamed, easily satisfied, with shallow tastes and insipid appetites, that he could fall in love with just one kiss. That wasn’t true. He was grateful. For everything. Because somewhere inside him lurked a cop who thought he deserved nothing, and she would have liked to seriously talk with whoever had made him feel that. *
Sam also moved in a world where he was not allowed to make mistakes, because any mistake could cost him his life. Sybil was well aware of that. But it tore her heart to pieces when he punished himself. She learned to apologize for mistakes at home, learned to share them, secretly and trustingly, like little medals for the Unceasing Resistance to Perfectionism.
Because loving someone is like having a question to which the other person knows the answer.
Sam threw off stockings and widened his eyes. Then he grinned, striding past her and slamming the door. From the inside.
He wrapped his arms around her tightly. She felt a kiss on the exposed skin between her shoulder blades, and because it was her Sam, he clenched his teeth on the hem of her dress and began to untie the ribbon of her corset.
“No, Sam,” she stopped him.
Samuel growled discontentedly, “I know, we have the Patrician's Jubilee celebration coming up.”
Sybil turned, her skirts swaying around her like the keel of a very expensive and golden ship.
“No, but this dress is awfully hard to put on. I needed help of three girls.” She lifted it with her hand, then sank to her knees in a flood of taffeta before her husband and smiled at him. She slid her hands over his warm belly beneath his white tunic and added: “Havelock will wait a while.”