Matters of precedence (1)

I'm sitting on an armchair, wrapped in a blanket, while one of the maids treats Alexander's wound.

They took out the aquavit again, and my Duke took a few sips before the maid started to sew him up.

He didn't offer me the beverage when he cured my hands. Well, it's true that I didn't need sewing.

From here, everything seems like a trivial procedure. My Duke is comfortably sitting on the couch. His right hand is clenching the armrest, and his forehead is sweaty, but he doesn't let out a single whine. He endures it in silence.

When our eyes meet, he even smiles tenderly.

«Why is my Duchess frowning like that?» he asks, feebly.

«Who is going to cut the beef for me, from now on?» I spit out.

The people in the room stop chattering for a moment, and they turn to us. Half of them are used to these odd exchanges between my Duke and me, but the rest is staring dumbfounded. I swear I see a couple of sympathetic expressions.