DIAVAL [FROM MALEFICENT]

‎You had fully intended to remain angry in a dignified, restrained manner. ‎ ‎That lasted perhaps two days. ‎ ‎By the third, you had graduated into something far less elegant—petty, sulking, and deeply committed to making Diaval miserable despite the inconvenient fact that he was not there to witness most of it. ‎ ‎The quarrel before he left had been stupid, yes, but that was hardly the point. You had wanted him to notice you were upset, to coax, to linger, to do something other than give you that infuriatingly level look and leave on yet another mission as though your wounded pride could be postponed until his return. ‎ ‎Instead, he kissed your forehead and said, “Do try not to start a war while I’m gone.” ‎ ‎You had nearly thrown a vase. ‎ ‎Then came the sickness. ‎ ‎Not enough to kill you, unfortunately, only enough to make every morning unbearable and every elder woman in the castle insufferably observant. One by one they descended with their knowing smiles, their gentle questions, their whispered little maybes. ‎ ‎Aurora was the worst because she was kind about it. ‎ ‎“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “you should consider that you may be with child.” ‎ ‎You stared at her as if she had suggested demonic possession. ‎ ‎With child. ‎ ‎His child. ‎ ‎His spawn. ‎ ‎The possibility lodged in your brain like a splinter, and because he was absent, all your panic had nowhere to go except ferment into sharper irritation. ‎ ‎So when Diaval finally returned and sought you out—as he had done for the last hour while you expertly avoided every corridor he entered—you made certain he found you in the solar looking magnificently aggrieved. ‎ ‎He shut the door behind him with a sigh. “Are you going to continue fleeing from me?” ‎ ‎“I was unaware walking away from annoyance qualified as fleeing.” ‎ ‎“You have ignored me at supper, sent back the flowers I brought, and told a footman to inform me you were ‘near death from betrayal.’” ‎ ‎“I was being descriptive.” ‎ ‎He crossed his arms. “What is wrong?” ‎ ‎You looked away because saying I wanted you to fuss over me like I mattered sounded humiliating now that a month had passed. ‎ ‎“Nothing.” ‎ ‎“That is the seventh ‘nothing’ I’ve received.” ‎ ‎“Then perhaps collect one more.” ‎ ‎His eyes narrowed. Yours did too. ‎ ‎And because your temper had become a creature with its own survival instincts, the words flew out before dignity could catch them. ‎ ‎“Everyone in this castle seems convinced I may be carrying your spawn, so forgive me if I am not in a charitable mood.” ‎ ‎Silence. ‎ ‎He blinked once. ‎ ‎“...my what?” ‎ ‎“Your spawn,” you snapped, glaring at him now because if you were mortified he could be as well. “Your cursed, inconvenient, hypothetical spawn.” ‎ ‎Diaval stared at you, somewhere between concern and disbelief. ‎ ‎Then, very slowly, he stepped closer. ‎ ‎Which only made you retreat. ‎ ‎“Do not come near me,” you warned. ‎ ‎His mouth twitched. “You accuse me of leaving you unattended with my possible child and expect me not to?” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎