July 3, 1902
Thebe Manor, East Veronaville
Hermia’s old bedroom now belonged to her daughter. Her son slept in Tybalt’s old room, and she herself had taken to sleeping in Juliette’s ever since Consort had fallen ill; now that Hyppolyta and Lysander were temporarily staying with Juliette, she had switched rooms and returned the her former lair. She did quite like having a room to herself again, a room where she was free to snore loudly, perhaps scratch her ass if it itched, and sleep stark naked without the stiff, silent judgment of her husband. The fact that his prying hands were now a story’s distance away from her was an added bonus; when one’s only sexual partner happened to also be one’s own grandfather, one did tend to develop a certain distaste for the carnal.
A man’s hand beat against the door. So far as Hermia was aware, the only men in the house were Consort, Tybalt, and that dreadful Doctor Stratford; she knew her brother’s own knock when she heard it, and Consort had been bedridden for months, so she concluded that it had to be the doctor. “Yes?” she inquired curtly, denying the door all but the briefest of glances.
Ignoring decorum and choosing not to announce himself, Stratford strode into the room in such a way that any clueless onlooker might have thought he owned the manor. As the actual owner–or, at least, soon-to-be owner, she supposed–Hermia was neither amused nor impressed by his encompassing presence. So far as she was concerned, he was as welcome in the household of Lord Thebe as partially-hardened slug secretion on the tread of some peasant’s rotting old boot. His usual smug smile pulling at his lips, he gave an obligatory, almost indulgent bow of his head in her direction. “My lady.”
Her eyes narrowing, Hermia ascended from the bed and nodded. “Doctor. How is my husband?”
“Dead,” he declared with a flick of his wrist, casually as he might have answered an inquiry about the weather.
Hermia stiffened; every interaction she had with the doctor was a power struggle, and this one would be lost if she revealed even the slightest sign of delight at the sound of his news. “I see. So my son is Lord Thebe now.”
“In name, yes; I wouldn’t be too sure about practice, though, as I doubt a one-year-old can hold such a position without some degree of assistance.”
She sniffed, barely able to comprehend the fact that she was being talked down to by a scandalously young physician who had probably never had a shave in his life. “I shall assist him.”
Stratford cocked his head to the side, an eerie glint in his emerald eyes. “In that case, I suggest that your first act as regent be the repealing of that law about your late husband’s descendants having to marry each other; judging by some of the younger faces in your family, a new selection of genes may be beneficial in an aesthetic sense.”
In all honesty, Hermia did doubt that any of the Thebe youngsters would grow to be great beauties or even average-looking, but it was not the place of a common man to say such a thing. “You insult my family, Doctor.”
“From what I know of you, I can rest assured that I am only saying what you yourself wish you could say,” he sneered, as though unfazed by the fact that she could order his arrest at whatever moment she felt so inclined, “but do believe me when I say that I am truly sorry for your loss. Now, are you planning on paying me, or do I have to rob you?”
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