by Emerson, Ru
“Ah—oh. All right.” Great. “Um. Another thing. Your ex—um, Lucette. She said your old man and the brute were gone, but I’ll wager anything the servants know she brought that old woman in here—”
“Of course. By now, all the house servants know. But what of them in his proper mind, or hers, would carry the tale to my father? Why be loyal to that?” Ariadne blotted his face with the cloth. Chris shook his head faintly. She shrugged, answered her own question. “Oh, Peronne might have, once; he had a small loyalty to my father because he was young. That is years since gone, though he will never like or trust me because of the bargain I made him: silence about the stolen wine for sword lessons. Even so, he cares for my father even less. The women are one and all terrified of Maurice and my father both, and Elonzo—he still carries the marks on his back Maurice put there with a whip.”
“Ah, nice. But—these are servants, not slaves. They could just leave—”
“Of course. But then Henri Dupret says, ‘That servant is worthless,’ and no household would ever hire him. My tante Emilie, who was just here, she went from this house to the sugar fields, no one would pay her for anything else save the—one of the houses—until two years ago, when Aleyza was able to choose her own household.”
“Houses?” She shook her head; her color was high. “Oh. Sorry.” Those houses. “I guess—” He jerked convulsively, dropped the cup as the bar rattled away from the door and it began to open; water splashed the floor, his pants, Ariadne’s skirts. Lucette, her face very pale, slipped through the narrow opening, shut the door at once, and leaned against it; she was clearly out of breath.
Chris reached for the cup, caught his breath in a near-silent hiss; Ariadne touched his shoulder. “Leave that, please, I get it,” she said quietly as she stood; Lucette hurried across the room. Ariadne gripped her fingers.
Chris cradled his ribs with a cautious hand, and slowly leaned back in the chair. “Mmmm—you get it.”
“Miss—I am sorry, madame, I never thought she would—”
“My fault, not yours, petite,” Ariadne assured her quickly. “I did not think when I spoke. But she would never have found aid for Chris, only for me; it is not good enough.”
“I know. I see this, you and he. Your aunt Emilie put a word in my ear, privately, just now; she will find her brothers, help for you. Somehow, we get you from here tonight. Henri—he has a meeting tonight, at his club, with Lord Sorionne; Maurice goes with him, as always, for protection. Sorionne will not come here; he has no trust in Henri anymore and Maurice frightens him.” Her fingers gripped the silver rose.
“He sent word to San Philippe already?” Chris asked. Lucette shook her head, then nodded when Ariadne repeated the question in rapid French.
“Apologies. I could not understand—yes. Albione has gone there with the steamer; he does not expect it back until two days, or four if they must also go north. He speaks of having the English lay wire in the sea, to the mainland at least, to end such delays. He is very angry.”
“I noticed,” Chris mumbled. Ariadne blotted his brow carefully, then handed him the damp cloth; he held it against his lip. “Why, though? I mean—” It was hard to think. “Why is this Sorionne afraid?”
“Because he aided Henri in the making of brandies, but now he says, ‘We have been found out by your brother Philippe, who will tell the King and my own family, I do this no more.’ Henri says he is coward.” She glanced at Chris, then quickly away. Her hands gripped the silver rose so tightly her knuckles were white. “You—think, m’sieu, you believe he has”—she swallowed—“has the—?” She was trembling visibly. Ariadne caught hold of her shoulders and pulled her close.
“Ask Peronne, or Marie; Peronne told it to me. Lucette, it is not the end of everything, you must go to Emilie, or another like her, someone with the old gifts. Get the powders and take them. And if you came with us, when we leave here—”
“Go where?” Lucette asked dully. “After what he has made of me, what am I anywhere?”
“My true friend,” Ariadne began; Lucette shook her head.
“No. Whatever life I have is here; what family, all I know. And”—she drew a harsh breath, scrubbed a hand across her eyes—“and if I could be of some use, perhaps; he says things when I am around that he would not ever say around you, I am still a servant in that way; he pays no more heed to me than to the chairs. I can pass word to Emilie, or to my brother, who works on the docks, who can tell the English or who you choose, to tell you what he does.”
“I will not have it.” Ariadne scowled at her. Lucette drew a plain square of cloth from her sleeve and blew her nose on it. “If he catches you, you are dead.”
“Perhaps I am, anyway. And if I go, and he takes another young girl? That would be against my soul—”
“It—”
“It would. It does not matter, however; I will not go.” She started, glanced at the window; someone in the courtyard below was bellowing for Marie. “Time is short, listen and do not argue. My brother knows many of the foreigners who dock in Philippe-sur-Mer, and he says many of the foreign captains do not like Henri Dupret, who gives himself airs and tries even more now to order what they may and may not do here. He will find a safe ship to give you passage; I will free you from the room after Maurice goes to drive the coach, and watch his back. Emilie will send someone to help you get away.” She looked beyond Ariadne to Chris. “Can you walk, do you think?”
“God—I have to, don’t I?”
“Emilie saw you; she will know to have transport or one strong man at least, to help.” She pulled the rose and its chain over her head. Ariadne shook her head, took the chain from her hands, and set it back into place.
“Keep that. You will need it more than I—I am done with Aleyza and hers, by her own choice. And he might become suspicious if he saw later it was not there.” Lucette nodded, kissed Ariadne’s fingers, then came around her to bend down and touch her lips lightly against Chris’s cheek.
“You must take very good care of her,” she whispered.
He touched her fingers. “Get us out of this room, and I swear I will.” Lucette blotted her face with a trembling hand, turned, and hurried from the room. Ariadne waited until the bar clapped into place, then sank to the floor and buried her face against his knee. Her shoulders shook. Chris patted her hair.
“He will suspect her, it will take nothing else but suspicion,” she whispered finally. Her voice was thick with tears. “He will suspect she spies on him, and he will kill her.”
“I think she’s going to do her best to not make him suspicious,” Chris said after a moment. “I bet anyone who lives in this house gets good at that, same as you did. And maybe we can do something to help her once we get out of here.” She looked up; her eyes were red rimmed, disbelieving; her cheeks wet. “Besides,” he said flatly, “if we get out of here, I swear to you right now, he is never going to have a second chance at either of us. And maybe he won’t live long enough to hurt her, either.” She merely sighed, very faintly, let her head back down onto his knee, and closed her eyes.
If I live that long, Chris thought gloomily. Chances were, neither of them would see another sunrise; there were enough holes in Lucette’s would-be plan—well, more holes than he cared to think about. Bad as one of Eddie’s. If Dupret caught them sneaking out of this house or anywhere on the island, he’d likely be pissed enough to shoot them both, only later cuss himself out for not having kept Chris around for another question-and-answer session. Alternatives, though: Wait for Maurice? He shivered; his ribs protested. Ariadne stirred.
“That,” she said, and set a light hand atop his. “You must let me look, feel a little; if there is bone broken, at least wrap something around so you can breathe with more ease.”
He considered this, sighed. “Much as I’d rather not—but I’d never make it to that door tonight if it hurts like this. Be careful, though, okay?” She merely nodded, got to her feet, and went back into the washing, emerging a momen
t later with the washbasin, which she set on the floor by his feet. She pulled the long cloth from the little table, glanced cautiously toward the door and then the open French windows, drew the knife from under her skirts, and cut the cloth into hand-width strips. Chris set his jaw and tried to unbutton his shirt, but the hand with the long cut was clumsy and he swore. Ariadne shoved the knife back into its sheath, smoothed her skirts and came over to undo the buttons for him, gently eased the shirt from his britches and stared at his stomach, stricken. He managed a sick-feeling smile. “Hey—don’t scare me, either, all right? Ah—I’m not gonna even try to look. How bad is it?”
“It is bruised,” she said softly. He closed his eyes as she set cool fingers against his chest, slowly slid them down to his floating ribs. He gasped; set his jaw again as she jerked her hand away.
“Go on; I’ll stay quiet, I swear.”
“I cannot tell—Emilie’s brother has my mother’s gift, but he is not here… ah, merde, broken or no, what matter if it hurts so?” She was quiet for some moments, her fingers moving lightly across his stomach. He kept his teeth together, somehow remained quiet; pain ran sharply all the way around his ribs and vibrated through his belly. God, if he broke something like my kidneys, maybe I’m dead anyway. Ariadne freed the back of his shirt; her hair brushed against his chest. She worked quickly then, wrapping strips of cloth around his lower ribs. “Is that too tight?”
“Snug,” he managed through clenched teeth. “Not too snug.”
“Good.” She still sounded worried. “Hold this,” she ordered, and set his hand against the cloth. She rummaged for a few moments in the narrow cupboard just beyond the table, came back with a threaded needle, which Chris eyed warily. “I am careful,” she said softly, and set his hand aside to stitch the ends in place. “Can you manage food?”
His teeth wanted to chatter; blood pulsed angrily under her bandage, set his head to thumping. “I don’t—think I can. Maybe if—if I could lie down a little. Some—water, first?” She held the cup for him, got under his other arm and let him use her for balance as he struggled to his feet, held him upright while he caught his breath and let the dizziness ease, then kept him upright as he moved cautiously toward the bed. It seemed to take forever, and once she got him seated, he caught his breath in a ragged sob. “Oh, God. That hurts.” She shifted her weight, got both hands clasped together behind his neck and eased him slowly onto his back, scooped up the coverlet, and draped it over him. “Thanks,” he whispered, and let his eyes close. Ariadne brushed damp hair from his forehead and eased it behind his ears.
He couldn’t sleep; his stomach ached, the muscles shivered deep down. And though Ariadne’s wrapping helped a little, the lower ribs gave him a sharp reminder of their presence every time he drew breath. The tip of his tongue stung where he’d bitten it early on; exploring with it cautiously, he found several other raw places inside both cheeks. No loose teeth, at least. This time.
The constant dread was even worse than the physical discomfort: he could tell Maurice was out there, somewhere, ready to come back and eager to pound on him some more. Or cut. He drifted in and out of a dazed doze, too exhausted to even open his eyes when he heard Ariadne move away quietly, then something scraping across the floor; it stopped next to the bed. She leaned over him; her hair brushed the back of his hand. Worried, he knew. Tell her it’s all—He dozed off instead, and woke with a start from ugly dreams that pulled a faint cry from him.
“Chris?” Ariadne spoke, low-voiced, very near his ear.
“Mmmm. I’m—all—ri…” He couldn’t make real words; his lips hurt too much to move.
She blotted his forehead, pulled the coverlet over his hands once more. “You are all right, sleep if you can.” Silence for a moment; he forced his eyes partway open, blinking furiously against the bright afternoon sunlight. Ariadne had pulled the low-armed overstuffed chair across the room and sat close to his pillows; she had the book in her hands once more and was frowning at it. Chris let his eyes close and drifted off once again.
Dupret’s face, Maurice’s—they faded in and out, first one, then the other; the voices echoed as if they were in an enormous, high-ceilinged cavern: Where is Eddie? The woman, where? Ariadne’s face, too: frightened, and then furious, and then taking first Dupret’s place, then Maurice’s, the long heavy knife she wore under her skirts in her hand, the blade between his teeth—Dupret behind her, laughing. You do not trust her, do you? The knife cut the tip of his tongue. He cried out and, with a convulsive gasp, woke.
Ariadne was at his side, fingers against her own lips in warning, one hand on his cheek. The room was gloomy, the sun gone. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Wait, it is all right.” She ran barefoot across the room, pressed her ear against the door. But even Chris could hear them out there now, even over the constant ringing in his ears. Maurice arguing with Dupret and at least one other person; he couldn’t make out the words. Dupret shouted them all down finally.
“Merde! I must listen to such noises, even here?” Maurice said something; Dupret overrode him. “To what point, if he is not aware enough to pay heed to what you do, and make answers? But we shall be late, and Sorionne will use the excuse to—bah, enough! We go! Lucette, you will wait until tomorrow to persuade the girl; the box has kept so long, it keeps a few hours more.” Sullen response; Chris caught the tone, not the words. Maurice rumbled something and Lucette snarled at him. Retreating footsteps and in the distance, a door slammed.
Ariadne came back to him; she seemed to be fighting laughter, but when she reached the bed, her face was grave. “You look—”
“Mmm. Don’t tell me.” The words were mushy; he couldn’t manage fricatives at all.
She shook her head. “No, I think—better. More bruised but not so pale and shaking. Water?” He nodded cautiously, freed a hand so he could grasp the cup. “No, wait, I help,” She clambered onto the far side of the bed, knelt next to him, and pulled him partway up, stuffing pillows under his shoulders and head. The ribs protested wildly.
“Um—can’t—Help me—all the way up.” He sent his eyes toward the washing. She nodded, got off the bed, and came around to pull the coverlet aside and help him ease his legs down. The room faded briefly, came back as he braced his weight against his good hand and concentrated on getting a little air to his brain. She waited until he nodded, eased herself under his arm and lifted, stayed with him until he nodded again. He let the arm slip from around her but kept his hand on her shoulder. “Um—need you for—balance. I—ought to try to walk, though. And I need the—the washing—”
“All right. I stay—like this. If you need me.” His legs were all right, fortunately, but he was unnervingly weak. Halfway across the room, he let go of her shoulder and managed the rest of the way on his own, though she stayed right next to him, in case he wobbled, stopping only as he reached the washing door. “I wait here.” Her color was high. “In case.”
His own face felt flushed. “Thanks.” He kept a hand on the wall as the door closed behind him and eased into the room very carefully indeed; it would be the utter rock bottom if he fell in here and she had to come rescue him. Everything took time, his right hand didn’t work very well—as much Ariadne’s bandaging job as the actual cut—and both hands jerked, beyond his control at odd moments. The worst was turning to the sink and catching sight of himself in her mirror. “God.” His lip was split and badly swollen, liberally marked with dried blood; one eye was black underneath, the other purplish and so puffy it was a mere slit. Everything else looked—“God,” he said again. “Ugly. Ugly man.” He dipped a fresh cloth in the water basin, blotted his face cautiously, and dabbed at his lips. He swore silently as one of the cuts reopened. “Leave it,” he mumbled. Ariadne would be starting to worry, he was taking so long. He caught sight of himself in the mirror again as he turned away, shuddered, and groped his way to the door. She was pacing the room, but stopped and came over at once as he emerged from the washing. He caught his breath, let go of the door,
and nodded. Like that reassured her; no wonder she looked so scared. If I had a face like this to look at—
“The bed?” she asked. She stayed where he could reach her, but didn’t offer to help.
“Um. Maybe, if I could eat a little something.”
“Yes. Here, there is still bread. Perhaps now Maurice is gone, Lucette or Marie will bring soup.”
“Bread’s fine. Bland.” It stood half a chance of staying put, anyway. He set his teeth as they reached the table, lowered himself into the chair.
Bread helped; at least, it eased some of the internal ache and the dull gnaw of hunger. Ariadne tore bread in half and then into smaller and smaller bits. Nothing left in her hands; she stared at them, then at the table, made a face at the resulting mess, but scooped up some of it and ate. “The tea is cold,” she said.
“Water’s better, I think.” Still hurt to talk; he was managing better, making more sense. Ariadne fetched his cup, poured whatever was left in the clay jar for him, watched him drink. Tepid now; and it had an odd, metallic aftertaste. You decided he wouldn’t poison you, it’s just pipe taste, he told himself firmly. “What was all that out there?” His voice came out a little too high.
“That? Oh. Lucette wanted to come in, but Maurice was there. She made an argument with him about the box; she tells him, I go in now, make her tell where is it? Maurice laughs and says no, if anyone asks Miss Ariadne of the box, it is the master, and if anyone beats upon—upon Miss Ariadne it is he, Maurice. So she curses him and he laughs even more—and then he comes and shouts at them both for wasting the time and for arguing in his house like so many spoilt children. And Lucette sulks and Maurice—he is angry, too, that my father puts him with Lucette in such a way, and they leave for his meeting with Sorionne.”
“They’re gone. You’re sure?”
She looked a little drawn; Chris didn’t think she was nearly as calm as she sounded. Of course, with Maurice threatening to start pounding on her—“He said so,” she said. “But I heard them go down the stairs, and there was hurry because of Sorionne.”