Marcello groaned. "I don't envy anyone Goneril," he replied. "We can take her back with us at Imbolc? Only that means putting up with her until then."

"And also getting her back afterwards," she reminded him. Her hands fell lax into her lap. "Ah well. I can tolerate blackmailers and madmen and my father; I can put up with your shrew sister for a month."

Marcello snorted. "At least my sister didn't fall for Duncan," he quipped.

Niabheara cut a sharp glance over her shoulder. "Don't test me, my love; I have no humor left."

He kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry," he replied. "Hair up or down?"

She sighed and glanced down again. "No, I'm sorry," she said. "You're the only warm man who's done me no mischief. I shouldn't be cross with you." She touched the side of her head. "One straight braid and I'll pin it up. It's always best to keep your hair tight when you suspect someone might try to cut off your head, so says my sword teacher."

"That's easy enough," Marcello replied, as he tugged and twisted her hair into a rather nice-looking plait. "I love you, darling, and I will not let anyone cut off your head. I like it too much where it is."

"And I need it, else I could not do this." She hopped up from her stool and kissed him, her arms draped over his shoulders. She chuckled to herself. "My poor head has done no one else so much good as of late."

He grinned, and kissed her back more deeply. "It's doing just fine, my dearest." He bumped her nose against hers. "Wife."

Niabheara gently butted the crown of her head against his chin. "Husband. Let me stop dawdling and we'll go down." She coiled the braid at the back of her head, then pushed a forked hairpin into it.