by C. E. Murphy
“And I was eight. Do you think it meant less to either of us for all our tender years?”
“You were going to have me thrown in the dungeon.” Eliza’s smile grew, and Javier laughed.
“It seemed like a good threat at the time.”
“I was terrified!”
Javier laughed again, shaking his head. “Now that, Liz, I do not believe. I don’t think you’ve ever been terrified.”
“I am.” Amusement left her and she turned to lean on the railing, staring down into the black river. “But the fears that haunt me are very different from yours, Jav. Things you wouldn’t understand. It’s the worlds we come from.”
“You’ve never let me understand.” Javier leaned beside her, fingers dangling over the rail. Eliza shook her head.
“No. And I never will.”
“Why?” Belinda tasted the impulse behind the question: he had wanted to ask it a hundred times, never daring. But there was something raw in the wind tonight, letting them touch on topics they had let lie fallow for fifteen years of friendship. Belinda found herself curling her fingers against the stone railing, wondering if that strangeness was her. She could sense tight control in not only the prince, but in his common-born friend as well. They never spoke of desire or the positions in the world that helped keep them apart. It was harder, too hard, for Eliza; that was what Javier told himself. “Haven’t I been there for your life, Eliza?” He reached over to touch her hair, catching a short-shorn lock between his fingertips. “I remember when we cut your hair,” he murmured.
“The first or the second time?” Eliza gave the river an unhappy smile. “Those were the best years, you know, Jav. Before God saw fit to grant me tits and hips that made sure I could never really pass as one of the boys again.”
“You were a stick,” Javier said. “Narrow everywhere.”
“I was a child. We all were. But you’re a man, Jav, you wouldn’t understand the change in freedom.” Eliza touched her own hair. “My hair was my vanity then, you know. And you three pinned me down.” She laughed, clear sound that Belinda found herself savoring, just as Javier did, for its rarity. “You pinned me down and cut it all off.”
“You were fashionable,” Javier protested, grinning.
“For a ten-year-old boy!”
“I never asked,” Javier murmured. “What did your family say?”
Eliza shook her head, the action draping stillness of soul over her. Her voice went quiet. “They were angry. But in deference to the station of my friends”-a minute shrug-“they let me keep it shorn so short for a whole two years. Until I got my blood.”
“Is that what happened. I remember you being sulky for weeks and looking like a hedgehog while your hair grew out.”
“No one would marry a woman with a boy’s haircut, Jav. And an unmarried woman is only a burden on her family. My father had daughters enough without the added trial of trying to marry off one who wears a boy’s haircut.”
“I would have taken care of you, Liz. Of your whole family.”
“Oh, aye. My whole family. And the cousins, Jav? And their babies? And the hangers-on and the families down the block who were related by blood three generations back? Until you had all the poor of Lutetia in your chambers, maybe. Maybe then you’d understand what you can’t. It isn’t your fault, Jav. You come from places that are too high.”
“And you won’t let me walk in the low ones, Liz.”
“No,” Eliza agreed. “Because you can’t save us all. You can’t even save one of us.”
He reached out to touch her hair again. “I saved you.”
“And my mother and three sisters died, Jav. Sacha and Marius should never have brought me to the palace.”
“You had the fever, Eliza. What were they to do, let you die? They would have brought you all. They say your mother refused. That she only let them take you because you were so very ill. I remember the second time, too, Liz. You looked so damned fragile, so pale and sick. They were afraid your hair took too much of your strength, and you needed it all to live.”
“And I looked like a shaved skull when I woke up. My mother thought I was Death come knocking on the door when I went home.” Eliza fell silent. “And she was right, Jav. They all died.”
“I would have tried to save them,” Javier whispered. Eliza sighed and put her hand over his. Belinda flinched, feeling the warmth of the woman’s hand on hers, and jerked her gaze to her own hand before looking back toward Javier and Eliza.
Eliza had long fingers, her hands nearly as big as the prince’s, for all that he was a half-hand taller than she. He turned his palm up to lace his fingers with hers, holding on hard for the few moments that she let him.
“I know, Jav. But we all have our pride.” She stared down at the river. When she spoke again her voice was carefully neutral. “It left me barren, you know that? The fever. I used to dream of marrying a prince.” Her smile had no humour in it, only years of resigned sadness. “I knew it was only a dream. Royalty doesn’t marry commoners, no matter how pretty they are. But still, I dreamed. Then the month after the fever my blood didn’t come, nor has it in the five years since. Not just common, but common and barren. No dream can survive that.”
“Eliza.” Cold flooded Belinda’s hands, Javier’s horror her own. He tightened his fingers around Eliza’s, uselessly, and she flashed him another sad smile.
“Sacha knows, can you believe that? I got piss drunk a few years ago and he asked me point-blank, I don’t know why. And I told him. Made him swear not to tell you. Then we fucked. It hasn’t happened again, so he thinks I don’t remember, but I do. Nineteen, I was nineteen and despite looking like this,” she jerked her hand from Javier’s so she could gesture at herself, “I was a virgin.”
“Really?” Javier’s voice broke with surprise and he glowered at the black river below. Eliza laughed without real humour.
“Really. I’d wanted-” She shrugged, stiff, and leaned on the railing, her elbows hyperextended with the pressure she put on them. “I’d make a fine rich man’s mistress, Jav.” She strove to keep her voice light, stretching her throat long to do it. “He’d never have to worry about by-blows.”
“You’re better than that, Liz.”
She smiled and turned to him, putting both hands on his chest and patting her fingers against the soft fabric of his doublet. “Yes.” She sighed and dropped her hands a few inches, putting her forehead against his chest for a moment. Then she stepped back, holding her right hand up. Gold coins glittered between her fingers, then jumped as she flipped her hand over and bounced the coins, three of them, across her knuckles. “I am.”
Javier clapped his hand to his purse. “Eliza!”
She laughed, popping the coins over to land stacked in her palm. Javier picked them up, scattering them across his own palm; they were all faceup, all imprinted with the same year. “How do you do that?”
“Practise,” Eliza said with a shrug. She bent her wrist in and fetched a fourth coin from inside of her sleeve, holding it up between two fingers. “Practise and a healthy disregard for other people’s belongings.”
Javier snatched the coin out of her fingers, grinning. “Are there more?”
Eliza spread her arms. “You’ll have to look.”
“Eliza…”
She dropped her hands and shrugged. “It’s your coin, Jav. I don’t mind making it my own. Call it the cost of setting me on your lover.”
“You’ll do it, then.”
She eyed him, turning back to the river. “Sacha told on me, didn’t he. He told you my father found out what I’d been doing.”
“Yes.” Javier put his backside against the railing and studied his feet.
Eliza’s mouth quirked and she shook her head. “Darling Sacha. I don’t need your protection, Jav. I have enough money hidden away to make a fine life for myself.”
“And yet you don’t do it.”
“Of course not. Your mother would never approve.”
Javier frowned. “What?”
“Come on, Jav. Your streetside friend suddenly makes good? All of Lutetia would think I’d given into your wiles and you were putting me up in style. The prince’s mistress.”
“Is it such a terrible facade?”
“No.” Eliza pressed her lips together, leaning more heavily over the river. “But I won’t climb the ranks on rumour of royal bed, Jav. I’ll find a way by myself or not at all.”
“Let me help. Take the position in Beatrice’s house. It’s a place to begin, Liz.”
“You’re a hard man to say no to, Prince Javier.”
“I know.” He bumped his hip against hers, smiling. “And you won’t, will you?”
Eliza’s shoulders dropped. “I’m not a lady, Jav.”
“You will be.” Javier twisted to put his arm around Eliza’s waist, kissing her temple. Belinda felt a sigh go through him, relief that the argument had ended without him making his plea an order. Below that lay gladness, not just that Eliza had agreed, but that he’d spoken earlier with Belinda, choosing his battles in the right order. Not, Belinda knew, that she could have refused the prince any more easily than Eliza could have. “I have to get back,” he murmured against Eliza’s hair. “Someone will miss me.”
“She’ll miss you.”
“No. I only spend the night with one woman at a time. She’s not in my chambers tonight. Tonight was yours.”
“Charmer.” Eliza turned her head to kiss his cheek. “Good night, my prince.”
Javier left her on the bridge, less alone than either of them might think. Eliza watched the river until the bells tolled the half hour after Javier’s departure, nothing of her emotions readable to Belinda’s weary investigations. Only when Eliza slipped away did she let the power go, staggering under the onslaught of stars after so many hours hidden in shadow. She reached for the railing, leaned heavily on it, forcing herself to shallow gasps when she wanted to drag in half-panicked lungsful of air. It would not do, would not do, to show weakness from use of power. Belinda curled her lip, barely an expression on the outside, but focusing all her remaining strength through it, forcing all her disdain at her own faltering vigor into it. A lifetime’s training straightened her spine, steadied her breathing even when her legs trembled and her heartbeat scampered with speed and lack of air. This was what the stillness was for: to forbid anything external from seeing her frailty. The stillness had nothing to do with the power she’d used to excess; it was her own gift to herself, studied and learned. The witchpower might enhance it, but the stillness was not born of the witchpower, and Belinda would not allow herself to soften in its use now. She spread her fingers against the bridge railing, light gentle touch that forbade her leaning, and slipped a smile into place as she gazed out over the quiet water.
No wall stood in her mind any longer, the odd, inexplicable flavour of her father washed away, his barricade destroyed. The desire to act was no longer separate from the ability to do so, golden strength finally her own. What was left of it? The day’s exercise had drained that pool so thoroughly she could only feel the emptiness where it belonged. She cupped her hands together as if she would call the witchlight to her, but in truth made no effort to-it would respond no more than a man exhausted by a hedonistic night. Like a man, though, it would replenish itself; Belinda had no reason to believe that, but found herself easily confident of it, the fear that it might not return as absurd as fearing the sun might not rise.
Taking her hands from the railing to cup them told her she had the strength to stand unsupported. Replacing them there made it clear how much preferable support was. An unexpected quiet laugh bubbled to the surface and Belinda leaned forward, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the dark water below. Returning home would be more of a challenge than slipping unnoticed into the palace had been that day.
Water rippled and distorted her features for an instant, adding a length to her face and peaking her hairline in a way that reminded her of Lorraine. Belinda straightened again, brushing her fingers against her forehead to wipe away the thought. Allowing herself to dwell on the Aulunian queen was always dangerous, but more so now. She could slip into the minds of others and sense their emotions, even share their thoughts if she touched them. Should Javier have a similar secret, then Belinda must be certain to keep her mind guarded always. Her duties to Aulun had to remain in the quietest part of her, lest she be exposed and die for her troubles.
There was a trick still left to be explored. Belinda put away thoughts of her work and turned to a thrill of exploration that brought another smile to her lips. Beatrice, she thought without heat, smiled too easily. Even now, when the Lanyarchan lass had been set aside for a while, her influence lay over Belinda like a cloak. Still, she chose not to wipe away the smile as she considered the last step she might take with her newfound skills.
She could read thoughts, gauge emotions. Influencing them would be a power worth reckoning with. An Essandian princess might be moved to suicide, if caught in the right mood, or her red-haired son made to fall in love with and rashly wed a barren commoner. Javier was a perilous target to test on, though; his own witchpower might easily make him immune to Belinda’s influence. And if the power were a gift of royal blood, then Sandalia, too, might be difficult to sway.
But the weaker minds around them could be used. Asselin already moved toward sedition; with a little effort, he might betray himself and his compatriots. A plot against Lorraine, built by those close to Javier-perhaps, to succeed, Belinda didn’t need so much as Sandalia’s own hand in the pot. Sacha’s ambition might well bring Belinda far closer to her goal, his plots the mechanism to undo them all. And sweet Marius would-
“Beatrice?”
Belinda startled more profoundly than she could remember doing since she was a child, a jolt flinching her entire torso as she twisted toward the sound of her name. Marius, in an extravagant hat and boots that showed off the shape of his calves, came up to her in astonishment. “Beatrice, whatever are you doing out here alone at this hour?”
“Has it grown so late?” Her question was distant even to her own ears, a flighty smile curving her mouth. “I suppose it has, hasn’t it? I’ve watched my reflection in the dark water without thinking anything of it.” Marius put his arm around her, warm and solid, just as the memory of her father had been. Belinda turned her head toward his throat, inhaling the scent of a tavern on his skin: wood smoke and ale.
“Are you all right, lady?”
“Better now,” she murmured. Marius’s pulse leapt and she put her lips against it, probing curiously with her tongue even as her own thoughts demanded to know what she was doing. Marius gasped, the soft sound of startled pleasure, and Belinda lifted her hand to knock his hat off and pull herself closer to him, closing her teeth over the rapid beat in his neck. The hat made a lonely splash against the water and Marius made a strangled noise, desire mixed with bewilderment.
“What, m’sieur, have you never had a woman act first?” Belinda kept one hand in his hair and slid the other down his body, rucking cloth out of the way to investigate what manner of man his codpiece concealed. He croaked and sagged, catching the bridge railing for support as Belinda let go a delighted chortle to tease his throat. “Less padding than a decent woman would imagine. What a lovely surprise, Marius Poulin.”
“Beatrice…we…the prince…we cannot…”
“The prince is welcome to join us.” There was sense in Marius’s protests and none at all in Belinda’s actions, but she withdrew her hand to unlace his ties and shoved his breeches down a necessary few inches. Need pounded through her, a desire for control and domination that was nearly alien to her. Her position was to be weak, attractive, usable; men of power, the sort she was trained to seduce and kill, did not in general appreciate a strong hand in bed. The sudden opportunity to take it was disconcertingly appealing, all the more so for the very problem that Marius had voiced. Belinda pulled him around until her back was against the bridge railing, put hi
s hands on her waist in a demand he understood whether intellect ruled against them or not. He lifted her high enough to rest her bottom on the railing, Belinda twisting her skirts out of the way as she pulled him closer.
He muffled a cry against her shoulder as she sheathed him within herself, and she bit his throat again, hard enough to leave marks. “Have you ever shared a woman with your prince, Marius?” All her rules were shattering, stillness forgotten in the demanding rock of her hips. His name was on her lips, used more than once, filled with a hunger that confused her. “They say there’s so little between a woman’s walls that if you both take her at once you feel the other. Shall we invite Javier, Marius, my love?” She nearly laughed at her last word, its gratuitous nature garnering another cry from the youth buried within her. She slid forward on him, barely balanced on the railing for all that he groaned and pushed forward again. “Hold me tight and we’ll pretend, Marius. Fuck me well and imagine the dangers of taking the prince’s lover as your own.”
For once, gloriously, her lover’s enjoyment meant nothing to her. Her breasts ached, body throbbing with a need that she gave in to utterly, forcing her own hand between their bodies to seek out her own pleasure. Marius protested and she bit him again, drawing a sharp sound of confused pain and then the tilt of his chin, giving her his throat in acquiescence. She wrapped her legs around his hips, dragging him closer, trusting his strength to not let her fall, and his hands knotted at her waist in a promise that he wouldn’t. “Harder, Marius.” Belinda barely knew her own voice, low with demand and desire, but the youth in her arms whimpered as he drove into her, desperate to oblige. A sensation of rightness overwhelmed her, carried on climax beginning to crest; she had spent too long, far too long playing to the whims of others. Marius would be hers, marked as hers, and no one would dispute her claim.
She knotted her fingers in his hair, pulling his head back to force him to look into her eyes. His own were wide, glazed with desire, pupils dilated. His breath was harsh, the play of his mouth lost and sweet. Belinda brought his mouth to hers and when he begged a kiss bit his lower lip until she tasted blood. “You’ll make me come,” she whispered. “With your next thrust you’ll make me come or I’ll cut your throat and leave you here to bleed, I swear it on my soul.”