by S D Simper
Flowridia’s hand fell to the bedpost for stability, head still reeling from the portal magic. “Sorry,” came the shy voice before her.
“You did this last night too. I’ll be used to it in no time.”
Flowridia met her eye and smiled, though her frayed nerves threatened to unravel. Alone, Lara’s visage was illuminated by the silver moon beyond, unquestionably lovely—she’d be a liar to deny it.
Flowridia righted herself, then placed a gentle hand at Lara’s waist and pressed their lips together once again.
The pleasure of it shocked her—oh, it had been so long since she’d last touched another woman, and the softness of Lara’s lips held tenderness and delight. A tentative hand cupped her cheek, the tips of Lara’s fingers skimming her hair.
Flowridia directed them to bed, to sit on the mattress as they continued their tentative exploration. Lara’s mouth parted; Flowridia deepened the kiss, a gentle moan escaping her partner’s throat. Were it not for the warmth, that small mouth could have been . . . someone else.
Her hand brushed the dip of Lara’s waist, travelling up her back as she savored the thin fabric and skin beneath it. Lara’s own hands stayed shy; Flowridia finally placed the one not at her hair on her ribs, the curve of her breast hardly a breath away.
The invitation wasn’t received, apparently. Flowridia let her own hand wander to Lara’s stomach, expecting taut skin, surprised to find softness, but when her fingers skimmed the base of Lara’s breast, she felt the empress stiffen.
Flowridia pulled back, lips and hands both. “I’m sorry—”
“N-No, I’m sorry,” Lara replied, her wary eyes expecting reproach. “You do smell intoxicated, though. A-And I’m . . .”
Flowridia shook her head, then placed a gentle kiss on Lara’s cheek. “I’m not drunk yet, but I did down two wineglasses for courage.”
“Flowridia!” Lara said, but it was much more a laugh.
“So it’s inevitable that I’ll be drunk,” she continued, realizing that her words might’ve been slurring a bit, “but I am doing this because I want to.” She brushed another kiss upon Lara’s lips, at the corner of her mouth. “I’d be thrilled to at least kiss you, if you’d be comfortable continuing.”
Enthusiasm showed in Lara’s nod, even if it happened impossibly fast in Flowridia’s oddly shifty vision. She turned into Flowridia’s mouth, the gentle motions continuing, and Flowridia felt caught between the innate pleasure of the touch and her own addled thoughts, of a touch that was too warm, sweet moans too high-pitched . . .
Drunkenness, fortunately, damped her arousal. Their lips brushed until Flowridia’s sight grew hazy, until Lara helped her lay down. “Do you need me to take you to bed?”
Flowridia thought she answered affirmatively, but the words were lost behind the pounding in her head. Instead, lips met her own once more. “Oh, Ay-Lauriel . . .”
It might have been humorous, but it worked. “I can’t carry . . .” The words were lost when Flowridia blinked. She felt hands at her feet, tugging her shoes. “. . . stay here. I don’t . . .”
Then, a kiss at her cheek, and a blanket tucked up to her chin. She remembered nothing else.
* * *
Flowridia and Lara disappeared from the party in a flash of light. Etolié couldn’t say she was sad about a bit of scandal.
“Good for Lara,” she mumbled, then she took a sip from her trusted flask. “And thank Alystra’s Supple Ass—Flowers picked a good one for once.”
Khastra, rather cruelly, began laughing. “I am inclined to agree.”
Etolié surveyed the party, filled with an entire legion of diplomats and ambassadors and well-wishers she ought to be making nice to. But the party, while not riotous, was tiresome. She spared a glance for her half-demon friend. “Listen, ya big lug—wanna get smashed in the library? For old time’s sake.”
Khastra’s grin could have blinded the sun, and it relieved Etolié to see. “I would.”
With their fingers still intertwined, they wound their way through the partiers, quickly entering the manor and descending the stairs to the underground sanctuary.
There, they spent the night giggling over the ceremony and Murishani’s pretentious games. Etolié told the tale of his ridiculous ‘away!’ and listened as Khastra told more, of days in Nox’Kartha surrounded by ridiculous nobles.
It felt so wonderful to laugh.
When Etolié was finally drunk enough to sway, Khastra laid her down amidst her sea of scarves. She remembered Khastra saying, “You should sleep.”
“I’m on a streak, though.”
“I will be much happier if you do.”
Etolié, with her clammy, drunken hands, managed to grasp Khastra, who swayed but was not yet smashed. “Stay.”
“If it will get you to sleep.”
With every blink, her eyelashes grew unbearably heavy, but when Khastra settled beside her and pulled her to her chest, Etolié felt a strange sort of bittersweetness, to know that this moment of normal, of Khastra by her side once more, would end.
In her sleepy haze, she could pretend there was no divide between them. She swallowed the bitterness and savored the touch, unable to contemplate that notion further—she quickly descended into sleep.
Lara slept, and specks of silver glistened against her skin. The woman radiated energy, and for it to manifest against her skin was only a taste of the power this woman had coursing through her blood.
This powerful, beautiful, lonely woman.
Lara slept, but Flowridia was wide awake, though sunrise had yet to flicker across the horizon. She sat up, careful not to jostle her sleeping companion as the sheets pooled around her torso. Her mouth held stickiness, but her head felt fine, despite her excessive indulgence. She brushed aside Lara’s hair, and silver glistened off her fingers, their beauty reflecting only regret. Her face fell into her hands, tears pooling in her eyes.
Lara was beautiful, the very image of royal perfection, a direct descendent of angels. But when Flowridia gazed down at her serene form, all she remembered was her too warm skin, her cautious, gentle touch, those soft silver eyes, the moan that held too high a pitch . . .
Ice seeped into her veins.
She slipped out of the bed, catching a glimpse of her figure in a mirror. With her tear-streaked face and tussled hair, she was the very image of disaster.
Opening the door, she gasped. Demitri stared down at her. Hope you had a good night.
“Demitri, please,” she whispered, and she gently shut the door behind her. “I have a lot to think about.”
In a daze, she went to her old bedroom and stripped off the sensuous green gown, realizing with some disdain that it had been useful after all.
What happened?
Flowridia changed into a plain dress, one of her old ones—simple frock of white and brown, stained at the bottom from garden dirt. She slipped on boots, though her feet protested. “Nothing happened. But . . . Lara happened.”
But why?
“I told you,” she whispered, voice choking as she forced out the words, “that I would have to become someone wicked to bring Ayla back. B-But, Demitri—” Her voice caught. Flowridia’s face fell into her hands. “I can’t do it.”
She craved the outdoors. There was only one place she felt truly safe.
Partygoers slept like the dead. With a quilt thrown over her shoulders, Flowridia passed a few who had collapsed from drunkenness on couches. Despite her streaking tears, she needed no spells to mask her presence.
Standing in the doorway, she realized a gentle blanket of snow covered the scene. Grateful she had elected to wear shoes, she pulled the blanket tight around her as she stepped outside.
She heard commotion and saw a team of De’Sindai disassembling the gaudy tent—with the wedding over, though there would be some revelry today, she and many other guests would be leaving. Murishani and his team would be gone late that night.
She cringed, wondering if Casvir were even here—he
had made it known he wished to leave after the reception, but Flowridia had disappeared.
Perhaps he’d left her to go home with Murishani’s team, or to live out her days in Staelash. It would not be out of character.
At the entrance of her garden, Flowridia saw smoke rising from beyond—Thalmus was at work.
Fearful but desperate for comfort, she turned her back to her garden and stepped toward the smoking kiln instead, Demitri in tow.
Thalmus’ rough skin seemed equipped for any weather—he wore a simple coat, uncaring of the cold. She knocked on the doorframe of his workshop.
He turned from stoking the fire, a rod of glass in his hand. His smile immediately melted her fears. “Good morning, Flowra. Did you have a nice night?”
Her stomach clenched. “Are you mocking me?”
“No.” Genuine confusion furrowed his brow. “I said goodnight to Marielle once the wedding ended. Did something happen?”
Fresh tears welled in her eyes. Flowridia stepped inside the warm building and sat herself on a bench. “I did something very stupid,” she confessed, realizing it was Thalmus and only Thalmus she could unburden herself to—here at home, in Staelash, she felt like a child once more. “And if I tell you, you must swear to not hate me.”
Thalmus knelt before her, having placed his glass rod aside. He offered a hand; she held it with one of hers.
“I kissed Empress Alauriel. Surely everyone knows. I kissed her at the reception, and then we went to her room and . . .” She dabbed at her eyes with the quilt, trembling from her quiet sobs.
“Why would I hate you for that?” Thalmus asked, and he looked very near smiling. “Flowra, she’s a wonderful woman—”
“She is. She’s a beautiful person. But now I have to go break her heart because—because—” Because otherwise I have to kill her, she couldn’t say. A quiet sob escaped her lips. “Thalmus, I know it’s terrible to say, but I miss Ayla. Last night was too much.” She wept, safe in Thalmus’ presence as she burdened him with the memory of a woman he hated. “I’m sorry. I know she was awful, Thalmus. You must think me a fool for missing her.”
“We have many disagreements, Flowra,” Thalmus whispered, “but I have never thought you a fool. Just because Ayla is dead doesn’t mean a piece of her isn’t lingering in your heart. You loved her. I never doubted that. Tell Lara what you told me—because you aren’t ready. There’s no shame in admitting that.” Thalmus glanced out the open door, past where Demitri lounged. “The sun is about to rise. Will you join me?”
She let him lead, leaning into his side as the first flickering of sunlight breached the horizon, casting light onto the frozen earth. The snow would melt. The day would come.
And Flowridia . . . would flounder. “Thalmus,” she whispered, her cracked resolve threatening to break, “you and I—” She blinked; tears brimmed as she watched the light filter slowly above the trees. “I fear you’re doomed to hate me, because of what I’m doing. I didn’t choose my talents. I’ve simply sought to do what good I can with them.” She tore her gaze away from the light to Thalmus himself and saw that he looked to her too. “You were the first person I trusted in Staelash,” she said softly, lip trembling at the words. “You made me that darling chess set so I would feel welcome and taught me to play when I admitted I’d never heard of it. I’d just lost a family, Thalmus.”
It was more than she’d ever admitted to him, but the kindness in his gaze suggested he already knew.
“I’d lost everything and everyone I’d ever loved,” she continued, heart breaking at the words. “I’m slowly able to speak of it, but it still hurts to think—”
She remembered, over four years ago, when the stares of people she’d known all her life had looked at her like she were a stranger, the reveal of her magic branding her as a witch.
Then her mother, the one who should have loved her yet had made her life a living hell . . . and who she had killed.
She had lapsed into silence; she only noticed when Thalmus spoke to fill it. “I had a daughter once. Had she lived, she’d be your age.”
Flowridia watched as he struggled to speak, heartbreak in his scarred features.
“I will not speak of my history as a slave, but know that I had many children, all of whom were stolen and sold in infancy, save one. Her name was Kedira, and she was kept in the same camp I lived in, perhaps to meet a fate like mine someday. But life wouldn’t break her the way it had broken the rest of us. She found beauty in small things, like the rare sprig of plant life in the desert and the sparkling of the sunrise along the sand.” He smiled, and it held such sorrow, his reminiscence wrenching to behold. “She tried to convince me that it was not the same sun that rose each morning but a new one ignited by Morathma, and she gave it a different name each day.”
Thalmus had never shied from sincerity, and so when he blinked, he made no effort to hide the gentle glistening around his eyes. “Kedira fell ill in her sixth year. She might have recovered; she was on the mend, but my keeper lost his patience on the fifth day of her fever. He threw her into a pit of jackals—” His voice cracked; Flowridia’s own heart broke with it. “I watched them tear her apart.”
“Oh, Thalmus,” she whispered, but there was nothing else to say, nothing she could do to comfort this gentle father who’d lost the world.
The sun cast light upon the glistening streaks on his face. He did not weep, merely shed silent tears. “Every morning since, I’ve named the sun ‘Kedira,’” he whispered, “except for the days when I worry for you and bless it with your name instead.”
They watched the sun as it fully burst above the horizon, soon too blinding to stare at. Thalmus remained a silent pillar of heartbreak, stoic and unbending. Flowridia merely took his hand, relieved and pained, his story stinging as deep as her soul.
“I could never hate you,” came his whisper, and then he said no more. In silence, they welcomed the sun.
* * *
Flowridia gathered her thoughts and courage as she approached the manor, the weight of Thalmus’ words slowing her footsteps.
This was the final nail in Ayla’s coffin. A body waited in Nox’Kartha, locked away . . . and it might remain so, forever.
Demitri nuzzled her hair. What are you thinking?
“We shouldn’t speak here,” she whispered, any excuse to delay the future cherished. She diverted to the garden, the noise of the world immediately fading away as she stepped past the invisible walls. Flowridia stepped through the peaceful path, grateful for the silence as she gathered her thoughts. “Thalmus gave me the advice of the kind father he is—to tell Lara the truth as far as he knew, which is that my heart isn’t ready. It would be the righteous path, in every respect but . . . I don’t feel peace.” She clenched her fists, quivering as she quelled the virulent storm of feelings. “I have her. The decision was easy until it became real.”
Demitri listened, casting no judgement.
“To bring about Ayla’s return,” she continued, softer now as defeat settled into her soul, “I have to become a person that I’m not—a person I will likely despise. Izthuni said I’d have to destroy everything I am. But I’m not—” Again, she squashed her feelings, her soul heavy with guilt and sorrow. “I would do this and only this—my one wicked act upon this earth and then live a life of peace and joy, or so I hope. I don’t know, Demitri. I don’t know anything. I need help. I don’t have a plan, much less the conviction to murder.” She clutched her wrist, nails digging into the tender skin.
Then make a plan.
She turned to her familiar, curiosity piqued.
Make a plan. Follow it. You can turn back at any time.
Flowridia knelt before a path of tulips, somehow flourishing despite the frost. Pure white, for forgiveness, and Flowridia let her magic trace through to the roots, her soul singing as the plants praised her return. “I have a body. I have no blood. I have nowhere to work, nowhere to hide—”
The oddest thing met her sight.
Flowridia rose to her feet, frowning at the interloper. It was unseasonal, for a mushroom to peek its cap out in the winter. They craved warmth and darkness, moist air and rot, and she covered her hand with her skirt as she plucked out the mysterious fungi.
The chill of the morning touched her soul, the dreadful realization that there was an inheritance she had not claimed, a hell she could capture and rule. Mother’s home was empty, and Flowridia alone knew how to pass through the ancient wards.
“There is one orb left unclaimed—or so everyone thinks. Casvir has told no one of the black orb, and neither have I. It’s a lure . . . but not if it lies hidden behind wards powerful enough to detour even the God of Order. No one would know of it, except for me.” She looked to Demitri, dropping the mushroom onto the frosted dirt. “What if I told you my mother had held an orb?”
Did she really?
“No. But you believed it. And Lara would too.” By every god—her wicked mind shook her to her soul. “And so I bring her there. I slit her throat over the body—” Mother had given Flowridia a thousand gifts, none of which she’d asked for or wanted. But perhaps her home and sanctuary would be a present from the afterlife. “Demitri, I shouldn’t.”
Why?
“Your inherent lack of morality is frightening sometimes.”
But this is what you want.
Was it?
You don’t have to make a decision yet. But it is good to have a plan.
“I suppose you’re right,” she whispered. “I don’t have to make a decision.” She swallowed, her next words pained and stilted. “But I should make sure I haven’t closed any doors.”
The meanings of flowers held powerful symbolism, and as Flowridia moved to collect a bouquet, old lessons drifted through her memory. She cut tulips of every color, for gratitude, for love, and for royalty. Lara, she doubted, would decipher the meaning, but let this all be a warning.
Geranium in the brightest blue for comfort. Flowridia added a few sprigs to the growing bouquet. An odd arrangement, but who would judge but the lonely empress?