“You’re a Wheel-trodden bastard sometimes, Louis,” Giselle glared at him from the small boat.

Louis laughed, drifting lazily on his back in the cool water of Rocaille lake. He had leapt off the boat, setting it rocking and splashing her as he knifed into the water.

“A whole afternoon off, and you want to come boating in that,” he pointed at her bodice with its pleated skirts.

“It’s not my fault you’re still a little boy, shedding your clothes like a molting snake.”

“Hah! I’m wearing braies,” he replied, “And anyway, there’s good reason not to be all formal in a boat.”

Taking a deep breath, he dove into the icy depths, leaving his cousin waiting on top. At the lakebed he paused to catch the rhythm of his heartbeat and reached through it for his elämää. The hot power flooded his legs and he rammed his feet into the muddy bottom, hurtling to the surface through the cold water. That thrust carried him high into the air, breaching like a silver salmon in breeding season. He wrapped his arms around his legs and crashed back down to the water with a huge splash, drenching Giselle and half swamping the small boat.

“Louis!” his cousin exclaimed, holding out her soaked sleeves.

“Giselle!” he mimicked her tone and chuckled, swimming to the boat.

“A Wheel-trodden bastard for sure,” she glared at him, drops of water clinging to her blond tresses like glittering diamonds.

“I am,” he agreed, “In all possible definitions. But so are you, Cousin.”

He hooked his arms over the side of the boat and grinned at her, his russet hair falling in wet strands over his green eyes. Giselle laughed and offered him a hand. Louis took it and his grin turned evil.

“If you pull me into this lake, Louis, I swear my revenge will be both subtle and terrible.”

“Ooo, a challenge,” he said and yanked, flinging her over his head and into the cool water. The boat rocked and Giselle made quite a splash, sending waves rippling out. She spluttered to the surface and glowered at Louis, the tip of her nose turning pink as it did when she was truly furious.

“Subtle and yet terrible,” she vowed.

Louis just giggled and hauled himself into the boat. He was a slender lad, still awaiting the growth spurt that teenage years would bring. Giselle, who was starting to become a woman at thirteen, paddled up to the boat, her skirts dragging in the water.

“Help me up, you monster,” shivering, she stretched up a hand and Louis heaved her into the boat, the sopping wet weight of her more grown-up clothing making the task harder than usual.

“We should get back,” he said, turning his gaze towards the rosy fortress nestled on the lake shore.

Rocaille presented a surreal vision, rising out of the green meadow to reach for the cerulean sky with its fluted towers. Yellow daffodils shone amongst the longer grasses and perfumed the whole scene in the glorious scent of lazy summer days. The fortress’s pink granite majesty gleamed in the warm sunlight, polished to smoothness by centuries on this quiet lakeshore. From the centermost of three towers the de la Roche serpent flew, a glittering blue jewel against the blushing flesh of the castle.

“Probably,” Giselle took the seat at the rear of the boat, “Your turn to row.”

Louis sat down on the bench, oars slack in the locks.

“I wish you’d done the Trials,” he said, “I miss you in the dusang lessons.”

“Too much Rullara blood,” she said with a bitter twist of her lips, “That’s what my father said. Too much Rullara blood for the Trials, but not enough to feel the call of the Drums. At least I have enough Consang blood to learn habi and earn my sash, though you wouldn’t say it by my skin.”

She held up a pale arm that had barely taken any color, even though they were well past the midsummer Festival of Berries.

“I’m sorry,” Louis leant his head against hers, “I know it’s worse for you. It’s just that I miss you. Herself isn’t much fun as a teacher.”

“It’s alright, Cuz,” Giselle rested her hand on the back of his neck, “You need something to be better at than me. You’ve got fish eggs for brains, so it has to be magic.”

“Thanks, Cuz,” Louis laughed, shoving her, “You always know just how to flatter me.”

“If you want flattery, get a dog,” Giselle smirked, “And if we don’t get back soon, we’ll be late for dinner. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think a punishment run for tardiness is a good way to end the day.”

Louis nodded and rowed them back to the landing by the castle gate with long sure strokes.

They made it back in time, if barely, and soon they were both properly dressed to serve dinner, sashes hanging from their left shoulders as befit pages below the age of majority. Louis wished he could just leave off the sash, it was forever catching on doors and corners. After all, Herself wore hers only when there were guests. He had pointed this out a few days ago during a dusang lesson. She had given him a gimlet stare and sent him on the habi run, punishment for insolence. The glint in her green eyes, so like his own, had warned him that a second round of obstreperousness would bring a harsher punishment.

Herself looked as remote as the moon as she glided into the greathall of Rocaille castle. Her flame red hair reflected the evening sun, crafted into a chignon that left the elegant length of her neck and shoulders exposed to the cool air. The cerulean blue dress flowed from her shoulders in graceful lines to godet pleats, her arms covered with silvery blue gossamer sleeves. Tonight she was wearing her sash, the serpent in repose along the curve of her breast. It was her formal sash. Silver thread glittered brightly on the badges, shining against the purpure base. On her heart, the viper’s scales gleamed, worked in blue sapphire flakes. Her gules tassel echoed the color of her hair, a bright splash along the line of her hip.

Louis was about to take his place at Herself’s elbow, to serve as her cupbearer, when her cool green gaze fell on him.

“Louis, whose sash is that?”

Louis blinked and stared down at his azure sash with the nowed serpent of the de la Roche family as the heart badge and the snowflake of the duchy beneath it. As her son, it bore the saltire parted fretty below the badges. It looked like his sash. It even had the purpure hatching, indicating his blood relationship to the sitting duke.

“Mine, your Grace?” his voice wavered as he wondered what he’d missed.

“Did you somehow unlearn dusang?”

Louis stared at his tassels, the candle flame frozen, while the blood drained from his face. They were both azure. Where was his gules tassel? Had he taken the wrong sash somehow? She was going to kill him. Especially after questioning her about wearing the sash. He swallowed painfully. He would have to look up. She had never allowed him the cowardice of looking away.

He raised his head, glued his eyes to hers through force of will, “I must have taken the wrong sash, your Grace,” he could hear the tremble in his voice.

“The wrong sash,” her voice was colder than the lake.

“It-” he swallowed and tried again, “It won’t happen again, your Grace.”

“This time, running will not suffice. Apparently, I need to impress upon you the importance of paying attention. To say nothing of adhering to the niceties of rank,” she paused and the promise in her voice made his knees go weak, “We will deal with that after dinner,” she continued and her words ensured that he lost his appetite entirely, “For now, go and fetch the proper tassels.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

He wobbled out of the hall on legs made uncertain by fright. It seemed as though every eye was on him and the heat of a blush rose to scald his cheeks. He felt as if his buttocks were already on fire. She did not use the switch often - but two sash transgressions in less than a week - he was in for it this time.

As he passed Giselle, his cousin smirked at him.

“Subtle and yet terrible, fish eggs for brains,” she whispered, and despite his fear of the punishment to come, Louis had to fight a sudden urge to laugh.

She had executed her revenge, good and proper.