American Queen

“Ms. Galloway,” he says, inclining his head.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I say—well, sputter, really—trying to cover over the adrenaline with outrage.

“I used to live here,” Merlin says calmly, producing a key from his pocket and setting it on the coffee table. “Years ago, when I was just moving to Washington, your grandfather was kind of enough to let me stay here until I found a place of my own. I promise I won’t intrude again, but I did think it was time that you and I have a talk.”

The bookshelf presses into my back. A cloud passes over the sun. The room is cold shadows as Merlin takes a seat on the armchair, crossing his legs. The movement is graceful but not sensual, elegant but not effeminate. There is something almost asexual about the way he carries himself, just as there’s something ageless in the sharp lines of his face.

It’s been five years since I last saw him in person, although it was impossible to avoid seeing him on television or hearing his name on the news in the time since. He was the campaign manager for Ash’s campaign, and now he’s Ash’s senior advisor—one of those roles that seems as ubiquitous as it is mysterious—and I know the timing of this encounter isn’t a coincidence.

“A talk,” I repeat. My throat’s dry, and I clear it. “Five years ago, I came to your birthday party and you told me—again—to keep my kisses to myself. Are you going to tell me a third time? Am I in trouble?”

And in the gloom of the shadows, the man I’ve been afraid of since I was seven laughs.

Laughs.

Not a sinister laugh, not a cruel laugh. A happy laugh. A friendly laugh. And through the shadows and years of fear, I see that he’s just a man. Not a wizard, not a psychic, not the kissing police. Just a well-bred, perceptive man who is capable of laughing loudly enough to fill a room.

Ash does love to surround himself with laughter, I think, peeling myself away from the bookshelf to go sit down across from Merlin.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says finally, a smile still on his face. There’s warmth in his eyes—real warmth—although I still detect the same wariness from our past encounters.

But I’m not seven or sixteen or twenty any more. The wariness doesn’t upset me like it used to. “Then what do you want to talk about?”

“I want to tell you a story,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “It won’t take very long to tell, and you may not care that much about it, but I think it’s an important story for you to hear.”

I consider this for a minute. I would be well within my rights to demand that he leave. I could even leave myself. I don’t have to sit here and listen to a man who’s been nothing but rude and terrifying to me since I was a child. But I can’t help it, I am intrigued by the idea of Merlin telling me a story. I teach literature, after all, stories are what I deal with, what I think in.

“Okay,” I finally concede. “Tell me.” As if on cue, the clouds move across the sun again and the room brightens with weak sunshine.

“Once upon a time…” Merlin starts slowly, irony twisting his mouth a little “…there was a man who fell in love with a married woman.”

“That’s a little different than the usual beginning,” I cut in.

“It’s more common than you’d think,” he replies. “David and Bathsheba? Tristan and Isolde? Arthur Dimmesdale and Hester Prynne?”

“Those are not very happy stories,” I point out.

“I never said this would be a happy story. Only a common one,” Merlin responds, leaning back a little in his chair. “Now, back to our man and woman. This is a common story, and so this man tried all the common ways of getting the woman to notice him. He flirted, he pleaded, he tried to impress her daily. They worked in the same place, you see, and so he could be relentless in wooing her, just as his own love for her felt unmercifully relentless to him. But she loved her husband, and even if she didn’t, she was the kind of person who didn’t believe in breaking marriage vows.”

“Good for her.”

He nods. “I agree. It was difficult to resist this man, though, especially as the years dragged on. He was handsome and powerful and he wanted her, even when she was pregnant with her husband’s child. It’s a flattering feeling to be desired by the President of the United States, which I’m sure you know.”

I can’t hide my surprise. “The man was a president?”

Merlin looks me straight in the face. “A president your family knows very well. President Penley Luther. Your grandfather’s running mate.”

I must look like a mask of shock, but I can’t help it. Grandfather only had glowing things to say about President Luther—really, everyone only had glowing things to say about him. It’s hard to imagine the hero of the American economy and international diplomacy chasing after a married woman.

“You have to remember,” Merlin says, “that Luther was a bit of a playboy. And he was divorced. To him it seemed natural that she would want him, and Luther never ignored nature for morality’s sake, at least in his personal life.”

“So what happened?”

Merlin looks down at his hands for a moment. “What usually happens in these cases, although it didn’t happen in the usual way. There was an economic summit hosted by the United Kingdom at a secluded estate in Wales. Luther brought this woman along, since she was his senior advisor, just as I am to Maxen now. The summit was brief but busy, and on the last night, the people gathered there had a small party. Lots of drinks. Warm fires in the chilly spring night. You get the picture.