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Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

Page 34

by Clarrisa R. Smithe


  Just as she swallowed the delectable taste of sugary crisps, vanilla cake and what may have been the sweetest raspberry she'd ever tasted, he had yet another within his hand, and the command was destined to be repeated. "Open, Astrid."

  She waited until the last piece of the decimated ball was swallowed before she followed his command. No words were necessary and she did not even fear that he had her hooked on the taste of such deviant sweet treats.

  And with a seemingly greater anticipation than before, she received the round sweet, but rather than instruct her to chew, he took another of the sinfully sweet balls and slotted it into her mouth to join the other. And then he fitted another, to where it barely crammed beside the other two. "Now chew."

  Prince Rhenan had told her his brother would see a change occur in her, but it had never occurred to her that Tristian would see her transform into Eleanor, or rather how she imagined her sister was around sweet treats. She could understand the obsession now and she wondered if the years of prohibition made everything taste just so much better. Only, she could not taste properly, neither could she savour the sweetness on her tongue for there was simply too much in her mouth.

  She squeaked like the dormouse she was certain she resembled as she began to grind her teeth against the surface. It was quite the task, getting her mouth to close around the portion, though Tristian sat with his chair noticeably closer to hers now, patient. This time, there was no burst of flavour, but a deluge, the sugary breading abounding around the multiple gushes of fruit to where an involuntary trickle drizzled down one corner of her mouth.

  "I realise my temper before may have come off as, as my family is so fond of branding, dramatic," he was saying as he picked up the folded red handkerchief beside the basket. "Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn't. Though it is indeed justified, no matter which perspective you view it from. If you are to be my wife, naturally you are to follow me, even if at times it is blindly."

  She wondered if he had stuffed her face with the cake balls on purpose, for there was not a chance of her speaking clearly, or even in a muffled grunt without the contents of her mouth spilling so ungraciously into her lap, or even worse, over him. He already had made it clear that she went on and on, but she wondered if this was a strange sort of confession for him, as well as an instruction.

  With no other option, she nodded, and conscious of the residue seeping from the corner of her mouth, she lifted a hand to dab it away, though the prince so very casually swept it aside, placing it back into her lap.

  He then gently placed the rich spun silk to the escaped juice, a decisive sigh following the action. "If you're going to be messy, we had better provide you with an appropriate over-garb next time, yes?"

  A flurry of laughter, disturbed and lowered in tone by the cramped confines of her mouth, along with her closed lips, drifted from her. So intensely had the humour caught her that her body trembled as she gave an undeniable single shake of her head. She was sure she would rather drip onto her dress than wear some sort of covering as if she was but an infant. Regardless, even through the burst of humour, she continued to chew away and gradually began to feel the food break down into smaller, more manageable pieces.

  "Then we'll call this your first warning," he reasoned as he swiped away the last of the fruit juice. Folding the cloth as it had been, he resumed. "As I was; I have admitted to my bouts of anger. Second to that, I certainly am not one to forgive too easily." He paused, his gaze on her firmly closed lips, and pretty soon, he lightly prodded her still filled cheeks. "But it appears I'm tasked with dealing with you and the child from now until forever. It's only rational that I erase your past, the stain of your upbringing and guide you down a much more fallowed, righteous path so that you will be worthy as my wife. For starters, I am to soon visit the citadel and speak with Father Conwell and Lady Constance. It is the honourable thing for me to do, to relay to them this unfortunate change of circumstance, but through that shame I do believe the Lady Constance will find it within her heart to assist me on the matter of purifying you so long as I convey to her the situation. Now, is the cake good?"

  It occurred to her that even if she was able to form a string of coherent words it would be rather unwise for her to request that he did not attempt to change every part of her. Removing the gods from her life would be impossible, but she was sure that talk of this 'Father' along with the woman who was formerly his betrothed was an indication that he did wish to see her convert. She could pretend, of course, pretend for his sake as well as her own, but she could not remove the true teachings of her gods from her heart.

  She nodded, for the cake was delicious and finally managed to swallow some of the contents, which consequently permit her to see another gulp follow. If she was able to talk, she was sure that he would rather they talked about the cake together than anything else he had previously mentioned. It was a harmless topic in comparison, an answer that allowed a yes or no, but she knew he already had the answer before she gave the incline of her head. He had read her well enough to know that she was somewhat intelligent, or rather, not as stupid as she appeared, or believed she appeared at times. Tristian would surely be able to determine by her expression if she favoured the taste.

  "Now, are you allowed to have sweets?" he asked.

  She almost answered in the negative, until she remembered that she was allowed sweets from now on, for he allowed it. Her head bobbed once, then a few more times with greater excitement for she found herself not only being allowed sweets, but also wanting more. Still, with her mouth still full, it would be improper for her to voice this desire. She did, however, allow herself to smile, revealing the dimples that were dotted along her lower cheeks.

  Seeming satisfied by this answer, he sat back in his chair, still with his intense attention to her every action. "Good. I may not be happy with this arrangement, but so long as incidents such as earlier do not recur, our union will be.. Tolerable. However, speaking of earlier, finish up for there is a separate matter in which I want to discuss."

  She gave another nod before chewing with greater speed than before, simply for the purposes of seeing that she could swallow rather than enjoying the taste. As she was allowed sweets now, it hardly mattered, for she would be able to enjoy treats like this more often.

  Once her mouth was void of any cake she looked to him with expectation and interest. "Prince Tristian I've finished."

  "Before the breakfast, I commanded you to hold your tongue should you feel yourself coming on with one of your stammers." His lip curled the slightest, a strange look on him, before it settled, as though he'd found the right words. "Rather than stammer, at one point you spoke in a rush that rivaled that of a mad woman. Is that a common thing? As common as your nervous little stutters?"

  "It's hard to say," she admitted him meekly. "I don't really know I'm doing it, u-until it happens."

  He looked at her, whereas before his gaze had been ahead through the glass doors leading from the terrace. "Well my family and those around you certainly do. I would hate for those around me to assume you're worse off than their initial negative opinion of you. Not only a heretic, but clearly a mental one. And those are not my words with intent to offend, but those of Redthorn will talk. And there need be only one servant who relays the princess' broken tongue, where then they spin it into a product of your parent's incestuous coupling and then it is ultimately me who will be then frowned upon, then the child you carry when it is born. Does this make sense to you?"

  She did not understand his assumption about her parents' union, the family tradition, in the slightest. If anything, Misseldon breeding with Misseldon was said to create strong minded and strong bodied offspring. Only, she was a runt, just as her mother had told her many times before. The others were fine.

  "When I try not to be like this, or when I tried not to, she would attack me so viciously and tell me not to, but she did not help me find a way to not be like this. Thinking about not being like this made me worse and worse. Sh
e came back to tell me off and that made me worse. Do you understand, Prince Tristian?"

  For the second time today, his hand fell onto her head as he tilted it back to gaze up at him, his nose inches from hers. "Do I strike you as a simplistic individual who understands very little?"

  "No, you're clever, and... and..."

  "Stammering," he said softly. "Under the most banal of questions."

  Her voice cracked and she could feel the tears threatening to burst from burning ducts. "You will guide me away from being like this. You will help me. No one has tried to help me before."

  The realisation hurt. A'zur, her big brother, he had his way, but did it help her? Soothe her and distract her certainly, but he did not provide her with solutions.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, but she was sure for a matter of seconds that she was not addressing Prince Tristian, but the young man who would have never allowed her to get this far in peeling off the layers of her personality and problems.

  He lingered, gold slates on crystal blue, his heat joining the cool breeze of the outdoors as he practically shadowed all else. How long did he intend to study her? Was he waiting for her to crumble back in the chair? Was this his method of crawling beneath her skin and examining her truly?

  "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he mocked lightly, then the small scruff of her hair before he retreated from her space left blonde wisps to fall as carelessly as his own at the frames of her face. "I dislike being told what I will do," he said as an afterthought. "But I can't well have you walking around as you are, so you are correct in this assumption."

  The smile that spread across her face was uncontrollable, as was the stretching of her arms so she might clasp his hand with her much-smaller one. Someone, finally, was going to help her. No longer would she have her panics with his guidance. She'd stand a chance at being a normal person and their child would be raised by a mother sound of mind rather than one completely disjointed.

  "I knew you would help! You're the best person! You're going to make me good!"

  That was all it took for his beginning relaxed visage to stir up the past set of consternation, his mouth pulling down, as Prince Rhenan said, predictably. He jerked his hand from hers. "This does not yet remedy the situation. Do not think to be overly familiar with me, as I surely will not be with you. In fact, I do believe it is time you return to your chambers until my mother and sister wish to see to your clothing." And then he was rising to his feet.

  Outstaying her welcome would be a sure sign that she was being too familiar. He wanted to lead and that was fine, for she accepted her position beneath him as was natural. Despite this, however, there was a desire to show that she was interested and that familiarity he was keen to avoid was something she wished to strengthen. Only, she had to do so in a way that would cause no offense. How she could go about that, she had no clue. It was best, perhaps, for the time being, for him to lead.

  She followed him in standing and nodded her understanding of his wishes. "Am I allowed to say that I enjoyed spending time with you, even if I am not to be overly familiar?"

  "No." Through the side chamber and into his bedchamber, his walk was brisk, his intention clear: they were not to speak of the brief sitting session. She was only to follow. But surely it was not so simple. At the breakfast table, he had been an image of quiet fury, but now it was as though he'd suppressed it somewhere far out of reach, the composed prince before her now offering resolutions for her that had not been available before. However, the passion was gone.

  He led them into the hall and the direction of her assigned chamber. Not looking to her once, he said, "Be sure to clean your teeth or all of that sugar will ruin them and weight will be the least of your concern."

  At first she imagined, with horror, the sight of her teeth littered with pieces of cake between the gaps, though she gasped and her eyes went wide at the thought of the sweet treats causing her to evolve into some ugly toothless crone.

  "I will, I will," she said in a hurry while nodding so frantically more hair escaped the braid. "I wish to keep my teeth."

  Perhaps it was a trick of the brilliant lighting shining in through the windows, but upon looking up to gauge his expression, she thought she saw a ghost of a smile touch his lips.

  22

  ~ LADY CONSTANCE ~

  Thornhall Citadel Chapel, Thornhall

  Thornhall, Redthorn

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

  Well-formed digits smoothed over the leather strips, all cut to an equal length. The handle was comfortable, as it ought to be, though was too large to easily grip in her palm. The wooden pole was of the same unsuitability, for it was too long to be used properly on her own form.

  "If you do not mind my asking, my lady, does the prince favour this form of devotion?"

  She turned and the chair turned with her. A special design, a gift from her uncle. The wheels too made accessing the entire breadth of the oak desk, easily six feet across, and four feet deep, a much easier task. The man before her was of an equal height to the desk's width, and while he was broad enough, he could not match the size of the furniture in its entirety.

  "He has not yet said. Neither have I taken it upon myself to ask."

  The man bowed his head and she knew that he was trained not to press further. Indeed, she had sent for him merely because she enjoyed his conversation most out of the men assigned to guard her. Furthermore, he seemed to know their faith the best and held the truth close to his heart. In truth, she supposed she rather liked these quiet sort of men, though she was no naive girl who believed that all men would fall silent when she wished it to be so. It was not her place to offer any attempt to change that, for all deserved a chance to speak.

  Even heretics.

  "His letters are full of the typical pleasantries. Inquiries about my health, how I might spend my day, mention of the wedding drawing closer." It was almost as if the queen was breathing down his neck as he put words to parchment, dictating that he should say this and say that while he sulked and wondered when he could escape for playtime. "Naturally I never reply."

  This appeared to pique the man's interest and he lifted his hazel eyes from the weathered hands crossed before him. It was expected for each recipient of a letter emblazoned with the royal crest to respond immediately, unless stated not to do so, though she saw no need. By the time she replied that she was in excellent health and humour, she could be rotting from some plague or poison in her bed. Life was unpredictable, but to be otherwise would be an attempt to know the will of God.

  "You wonder why I never answer the prince?" She could have entered a lecture on the mind of God, of his will and wrath, but instead gestured with a coy smile to the papers upon her desk. With the whip in hand, she reached to tap at each pile, four in total, before she settled the device down in the specially crafted stand a foot before her in the centre.

  "Look at all this. Ever since the date of my marriage has loomed closer I have received so many requests for my reviews. The rise in price, from two silver to one gold rose has not put authors off. The papers keep coming and coming."

  Constance rose from her seat and retrieved the whip once more. Holding the fine piece of craftsmanship by its tails, she proceeded to point at the piles in turn. "This pile, the largest as you can see, consists of pieces I have yet to read. New works are placed on the bottom and I read two thousand words per piece." A short chuckle left her lips. "I have someone count for me. Sometimes writers have the audacity to suggest that I should read more for the price I charge, or should reduce the charge when they only write, say, three quarters of my limit. But one has to be firm, yes? They should stand by the rules they have set themselves."

  The next pile was lightly patted. "This one is my approved pile. Letters of a positive nature sent to the authors commending them for their works. Fiction and factual of course, though as always, reference to God is encouraged. A necessity actually, in the works that wish to carry my name as a commendation."<
br />
  This was when she indicated to the right. "Those who need improvement are placed here. Promise is noted and nobody expects perfection instantly. Some of the most enjoyable and more importantly, enlightening works were laboured over time and time again. Drafting and drafting until the piece shone from its high quality."

  "If you would forgive my intrusion, my lady, what happens to the works that do not meet your approval?"

  "Sir Gerard," she began as her eyes fell upon the rightmost pile. Rarely did pieces find their home in this stack, but some writers thought they could be different. Some thought they could dabble in heresies she would not see. Play with fire they could not handle. It seemed only fitting that they would burn for it. "They go right here."

  "Are they disposed of quickly, save their negativities seeping into the mind of the receptive reader?"

  Again, she chuckled. "For a man twice my age and so seasoned in the field of battle, I consider you terribly naive."

  "Apologies, my lady. I meant no offence."

  "Of course you did not. You never do." He was a gentle dog most of the time, loyal and ready to receive her attention, or merely provided her with company. Other times he was the ideal male, prone to self-punishment as was respectable and proper, as well as right, and frantic prayers to God. She had attempted such passion long ago, though found that cool and gentle whispers of devotion against her joined hands, coupled with silence as the whip lashed against the flesh of her back, was more suited to a female.

  "Here is the pile in which the works of authors go who require further investigation. If I note even the hint of something disturbing I deem it appropriate to be passed to my uncle." She settled back in her chair and placed the whip in its previously occupied location.

  "Do you know what I call this part of the job?"

 

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