by Ila Mercer
It was not what he had expected her to say and he felt his lips lift with relief. ‘No. I don’t.’
Her shoulders loosened for a moment. ‘Why not?’
He felt a lump form in his throat and he thought back to the few times when women from other tribes had shown their interest. Yet none of them had roused any sort of feeling in him. Not like Katarin. ‘There were a couple who might have been,’ he said, ‘but our tokens were unsuited.’
‘And if you loved her anyway?’
‘That does not happen often,’ he answered, ‘because those unions rarely last.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And what if you met someone who did not have a token?’
He realised his mistake and felt like a fool. ‘I think everyone has a token,’ he said.
‘Even Dracodians?’
‘Yes. But I think your people have forgotten how to find theirs.’ And as he said it he realised he believed it. For wasn’t a token the symbol of a person’s inner being? Katarin’s token then would be a stunning display of all the strength, intelligence and beauty she possessed.
They fell silent then, she with her fingers curling and uncurling from the bars, he with his eyes on her downturned face, trying to gauge what she was thinking. After a while she began fumbling in her pocket. ‘I want to take you somewhere,’ she said, pulling the cell key from her pocket, turning it in the lock.
The door swung open and she glanced over her shoulder. ‘They still leave you alone until daybreak?’
‘Yes,’ Ari said. ‘They don’t imagine that I would be able to break out of the cell.’
‘Follow me,’ she said, grabbing the lantern from its hook at the base of the stairs.
She led him along the path to the cellars and Ari thought they might be going through the secret tunnel out to the orchards, but she turned in a different direction. Down a small flight of steps, through a small doorway, and up a spiral staircase. ‘Where are we going?’ he whispered.
‘Hush, you’ll see,’ she replied. Up, up, up the spiral case wound. Every so often the stairs levelled off onto a landing with a doorway but Katarin did not stop, not until they were at the top of the stairs where they stood before a ladder leading to a small trapdoor in the ceiling. Katarin climbed the ladder first and, when she pushed the door, its hinges whined. She hoisted herself through the small opening and, once on the other side, beckoned for Ari to follow. The opening looked too small, Ari thought, but with a few misgivings, he climbed the ladder. He squeezed through the hole, his shoulders scraping the sides. If he had been any larger he imagined he might have become stuck.
The room into which he climbed was as small as his cell, with curved walls and no windows. On the floor lay a spongy woven rug with a pile of cushions scattered across it. The room had no other furniture apart from a long tubular device, mounted on a stand. Katarin closed the trapdoor and dimmed the flame in the lamp until it barely flickered. Then she set it beside the trapdoor.
For a moment Ari could see little. The room gloomed with shadows but, then as his eyes adjusted, he realised there was a faint glow of light coming from the glass domed ceiling above. He tilted his face and gazed. His breath caught in his throat. For above him was a scene he had been denied since coming to the Downs. Stars. Thousands of them clustered into a milky strand.
‘Do you like it?’ Katarin asked.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Ari sighed. It made him think of his people and he wondered if they too were gazing into the heavens at that moment.
She reached for his sleeve and pulled him down beside her on the cushions. They lay side by side, drinking in the stars.
‘When we were younger, Lars, Worrel, and I often came up here to look at the stars and years ago Senna Jogan also climbed these stairs to look at the stars with his telescope. But now his knees are bad and he’s too fat to get through the trapdoor.’
‘Telescope?’ Ari asked.
‘Over there,’ she said pointing at the metal contraption. ‘I’ll show you.’ She stood up and beckoned for him to join her. She unlatched a clasp and then lifted the long metal tube from its stand. She lifted the telescope to her right eye, aiming the wider end at the stars above, then twisted the tube a couple of times, turning it back a notch, and then forward again, ever so slightly. ‘There,’ she said with a tone of satisfaction.
She handed the telescope to Ari and gave him instructions on how to sharpen the image.
He pressed the cold metal to his eye and twisted the tube. Stars seemed to leap from the night sky. With his right hand he reached out as though to touch them and laughed when his hands met empty air. ‘It’s amazing,’ he said, swinging the telescope in a slow wide arc, seeing the stars in greater detail than he’d ever seen before. He paused when he reached the Dancers. There were only supposed to be five stars, arranged in a rough square, and yet he counted seven. Two more than there should have been. How could that be? He lowered the telescope and gazed at the constellation with his naked eye. Now he could only see five and yet there was a faint suggestion of the others. He blinked, and the suggestion vanished. It rattled him. That there were things out there that he’d never seen before. Had it always been so? His people would shake their heads in incredulity if he told them he had seen seven stars within the Dancer Constellation.
‘What is it?’ Katarin asked.
‘I never knew about the other stars.’ He handed her the telescope and she mounted it back on its stand. ‘My people pride themselves on knowing the heavens. We have names for every constellation. We know the phases of the moon more intimately than we know the lines on our own hands… We thought we knew the limits of the heavens. But tonight, I’ve learned this isn’t so. It’s… humbling.’
Katarin smiled. ‘Our heavens, seas, and mountain summits bear greater mysteries than you or I could ever fathom, … a line from one of my favourite poems,’ she explained.
Katarin dropped to the floor and propped a cushion under her head. With a faraway expression, she gazed into the sky above. She appeared to be mulling something over.
Ari stretched out beside her and she reached for his fingers. They were warm and soft. His heart drubbed with warning. A love between Beast and Dracodian would never be sanctioned. And if he truly cared for her, he should spurn her advances.
He turned to face her. ‘Katarin, I don’t think-’
But she put a finger to his lips. ‘Forget about that now.’
But he couldn’t. A warning tolled through his entire being. How could they be together in this hostile land? What would become of her, of him, if their feelings for each other were ever discovered? And if she touched him again, he wasn’t sure he would be able to resist.
She pulled away and sat up. His eyes met hers. What was she doing? And then he realised, she was kicking off her satin slippers, rolling her silk stockings over her toes.
She leaned over when she sensed he was about to protest and cupped her palm gently over his mouth. Then she leaned over and pressed her lips to the back of her own hand. ‘Don’t spoil it,’ she whispered, her breath tingling his skin.
When she stood up again, she stepped out of her cloak, letting the fabric pool at her feet. Then, she loosened the stays on her bodice causing the left sleeve to slip down her arm, revealing a shoulder as smooth and white as marble. When she reached for the back of the dress, the fabric stretched taut across her breasts and he had to turn away, overcome with sudden longing. But, like a magnet, she compelled him to look again and he watched as she fumbled with the buttons.
Then, like snow cascading down a hillside, her dress fell to the floor. She stood before him, stripped of her finery and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He suddenly realised why she had done this. It was not about sex or desire. It was about truth. She was baring herself, just as he had in the orchard so many nights ago. And he knew then, he would never leave the Downs unless she was by side.
Madam Grist’s House of Paint
The journey to Yawmouth took all ni
ght. The moon was a thin whisker, too insubstantial to make a Change, but the Hunter took no chances. He stuck a hessian bag over Lita’s head and bound her hands in cloth, careful to ensure she could not draw any power from the moon.
The muskiness of the hessian, the sour warmth of her breath, the lack of air, the Hunter’s pinching grip around her waist, crushed her resistance. How could she fight her way out of such circumstances? At first, the shock of her capture had a numbing effect on her. She felt fuddled and confused. How had it happened? One moment she was sewing with Sal and the next she was in the clutches of the Hunter. No, there was a middle bit – Yaron had come to help her get away. But she had gone back to warn Madea. Together they might have overpowered the Hunter but Madea had stood by, done nothing. Why was that? All through the journey, these thoughts pounded through her head to the rhythm of the horse’s hooves until she realised, she had to let it go. She could not dwell on what had happened. Instead, she realised she had to keep her wits about her, so that she might find a way to escape.
By morning, she sensed a difference through the stifling hessian. It was as if their surroundings had thinned and it made her wonder if they had left the forest. Before long, her suspicions were confirmed. She heard a cow lowing in a field nearby, and then from far away, the low rumble of a wagon as it rolled toward them. Slowly, light filtered through the hessian and she knew it was morning. He lifted her hood and she blinked as her eyes adjusted. In the distance, the red roofs and white stucco of the merchant quarter rambled up the hillside while below the rubble of commerce sprawled down to the bay. They had returned to Yawmouth.
The house to which he took her was a crumbling, two story building near the docks. It might have been a grand house long ago, before the merchants moved their wives and children up the hill.
A sour faced woman met them at the door. She had heavily made up eyes, a pouting red mouth, and a bright green dress that was too small for her overflowing breasts. At her feet, a cat smooched against her skirts.
‘So, this is she?’ the painted woman asked, casting her eyes up and down Lita’s body.
‘Good morning Madam Grist,’ the Hunter said, bowing with a flourish. ‘You are the picture of beauty today.’
Madam Grist patted her loosely coiled hair, eyes softening for a moment. ‘Don’t think you’re going to flatter me into an easy deal,’ she purred.
‘The thought never crossed my mind,’ the Hunter replied, then clearing his throat, added, ‘And yes, this is the one that I spoke of.’
The woman narrowed her eyes and humphed. ‘She’s older than I expected.’
‘But as untainted as tomorrow’s dawn.’
The woman clucked her tongue. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘Of course.’
She narrowed her eyes again. ‘And you’re certain she’s a Beast?’
‘I have a nose for these things.’
Madam Grist grimaced. ‘Then I take it you haven’t proof?’
‘It could be arranged but do you really wish to take that sort of risk? Besides, if I say she’s a Beast my word alone is sure to bring you buyers.’
‘So long as you stand by your word, I care little what she is. So long as my gentlemen guests believe it, that’s all that counts.’ She sighed then and turned on her heel. Over her shoulder she said, ‘You might as well come in. I dont like to do business at the door.’
The Hunter gave Lita a little nudge and she stumbled through the open doorway. Madam Grist locked the door behind them and led them up the hall, her hips swinging provocatively while the cat trotted beside her, its tail rigid as a flagpole.
Through an open doorway Lita heard girls tittering, and when she glanced in, she was shocked to see them lolling on a settee in nothing more than their undergarments. They returned her gaze with more tittering and knowing whispers. Lita glanced away, feeling her face and ears grow hot.
At the end of the hall the woman turned into an open doorway and the Hunter jostled Lita through it too.
Madam Grist sat down at a desk made of dark polished wood. On the wall behind, a framed and younger version of her pouted prettily. Long ago she had been quite striking, with blue black hair, clear shining skin and a knowing sparkle to her eye.
Lita tried to sit by the fire, but Madam Grist barked at her, ‘No, stand. I want to see you properly.’ The Hunter, however, was permitted to sit and chose a plush armchair beside the desk. The two of them began discussing her as if she were not even present and what the Hunter did not know of Lita’s circumstances, he made up. Lita did not care though; it mattered little to her what the Madam thought, because she would escape at the first opportunity. She would not be letting a man put his hands on her. Not even if she was offered all the gold in the Kingdom.
She gazed around the room, noting that the rug was cleverly patched in several places, that the corners of Madam’s desk had minor scratches and dents, and that the rapier above the fireplace had a tarnished hilt from years of apparent neglect. At first glance the room had appeared grand and lavish, but on closer inspection it seemed weary and worn. Just like Madam Grist.
The Madam, who had a prodder in her hand by this time, was using it to gain Lita’s attention. Lita jumped as one sharp barb poked her belly. ‘she-Beast,’ the Madam barked. ‘What are you?’
Lita did not understand the question and gazed blankly at the woman.
‘She seems a bit stupid,’ the Madam snorted.
‘Tell Madam Grist,’ the Hunter coaxed Lita. ‘You’ll be better off if you do.’
‘Better off than what?’ Lita retorted.
‘Oh, you have a voice then,’ Madam Grist said, a nasty little smile springing to her lips. ‘What do you turn into?’
Lita tightened her lips. She would not say.
The Madam sighed. ‘Never mind, you won’t be doing that while you’re here anyway. I’ll say you’re a lioness. My customers will like that.’ She tilted her head to the side and in a sickly-sweet voice asked, ‘How old are you dear?’
‘Fourteen, I believe,’ the Hunter answered for her.
‘Ever been with a man?’ the Madam asked, lifting the corner of Lita’s shawl with her prodder.
Lita batted the prodding fork away. ‘No,’ she answered, embarrassed into confession.
‘Good,’ the Madam said, leaning back in her chair as she continued to size Lita up. ‘Yes, I think I know who’d like you too.’ Swivelling back to the Hunter she asked, ‘How much?’
The Hunter leaned forward, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Two bags of silver.’
The Madam laughed. It was a short sharp sound, like a cat that’s been trod upon. ‘One bag of silver. You know that’s the going rate.’
‘A bag of silver, and a fifty percent cut from the first rite.’
The Madam scowled but seemed to consider the offer.
Lita began to feel scared. She dreaded to think what the first rite was; it didn’t sound good, especially as the Hunter was so eager to get a cut of it.
‘Twenty five percent,’ Madam Grist said with a lift of her chin, ‘and bring me some buyers. With your reputation, they’ll know she’s the real deal.’
The Hunter stared at Madam Grist long and hard but, in the end, he agreed to her terms.
From a thick chain around her neck, Madam Grist produced a bunch of keys, one of which she used to unlock a drawer of the desk. Into a bag, coins tinkled and then she handed this over to the Hunter. With merely a glance, the Hunter left and as soon as he was out of earshot, Madam Grist said, ‘He’ll be at the cards within an hour, if I know my Hunter,’ she sighed. ‘Such a waste of my hard-earned coin.’
Lita averted her eyes. She did not want Madam Grist to think they could ever be friendly.
‘Though you might not think it yet,’ Madam Grist said, ‘I’ll tell you straight. You were lucky to be brought to my establishment. We’re a cut above them others. My girls don’t solicit from the sidewalks, they wear fine silks and never have to go with anyone beneath merc
hant status. Some of my girls have even served the nobles of Lacnor.’
The reassurances did nothing to stop the fluttering panic in Lita’s stomach. In fact, it only made it worse.
For the rest of the morning, Madam Grist stuck to Lita like lint. Her very first task was to rid Lita of her work shift and find something pretty for her to wear. She made Lita strip in the bath house and it took all of Lita’s craftiness to conceal the map amongst her folds of clothing. Though Madam Grist offered to take them away to be washed, Lita objected saying that she would prefer to do the task herself.
‘Do as you please,’ Madam Grist said, distracted by the bruises on Lita’s arms. ‘I thought you said you hadn’t been with a man,’ she tut-tutted.
‘I haven’t,’ Lita said, covering her body with her hands. ‘That was the Hunter.’
Madam Grist raised one brow but made no further comment.
After a quick scrub, under the watchful eye of Madam Grist, Lita was handed a chemise made of finely woven linen and a white overdress embedded with tiny seed pearls. The chemise, as she slipped it over her shoulders, was as soft as Hodder’s muzzle, and the memory of it made her sniff with self pity. What would MaKiki say if she saw me now, Lita thought.
‘You’ll ruin that shift if you spill tears on it,’ Madam Grist snapped.
Lita pulled her shoulders straight and held her head up. She decided that she would not cry. That could wait until she was alone.
After she was dressed, Madam Grist showed Lita the room she would be sharing with three other girls. This room was plain, with crumbling grey plaster, four simple cots and a couple of dressing tables. Above them, a window had been boarded up and Lita guessed that Madam Grist was taking no chances with her. She was assigned a cot, and when Madam Grist turned away for a moment, Lita quickly hid the map under its mattress. She wondered about the other occupants, whether they would be friendly or mean, and whether she would be able to trust them not to snoop.
When they left the room, Madam Grist locked the door with one of the iron keys that hung from a loop at her belt. As they entered each new room Lita searched for a means of escape but it seemed Madam Grist was long experienced in her profession. In the mildewed backrooms there were bars on every blackened window. It appeared as though the only exit was through the locked front door.