by Gwen Perkins
Quentin didn’t look away and neither did his wife. She stepped in front of him as if she could shield him with her body, still clasping his hand, the pressure of hers so tight that he could feel the blood draining from his skin.
Tammas was several feet away but Quentin thought that he could see the other man’s lips move. His lower lip appeared swollen, blood trickling down his chin and dripping against the wood below. The executioner said nothing in response but simply, quietly nodded. Then Tammas knelt, his knees lowering themselves into the bed of straw that had been placed next to the block.
“He’ll kill himself by the end of the week,” Quentin heard a voice behind him say. “They always do.” He recognized the speaker but did not turn. Felix, he thought. Why come over to speak with me? What purpose can it possibly have?
Tammas was holding his arms up towards the sky and a collective hush came over the crowd as the executioner pushed them down on the block, tethering the man’s hands with rope. Catharine made a choked sound in the back of her throat, balling up her fist and biting it. She stepped forward, the hair slipping from her braid as her head whipped around to look at Quentin with frightened eyes. He said nothing, not knowing what it was that she feared. It could very well have been him.
“Milady, methinks you should sit,” Felix said quickly. He reached out, stepping around Quentin to grab Catharine’s arm. To Quent’s surprise, she didn’t stop him. He noticed then that she was trembling, her knees swaying as the executioner readied his axe. Her head turned back towards the platform despite Felix’s attempts to move her away from the crowds. Her arm jerked away from him and she slipped between people, nearing the stage as Quentin watched.
Then the axe fell.
Screaming followed it. First Tammas shrieked, than others in the crowd did the same, watching as blood flowed from what was left of his hands. The executioner jerked him up sharply, half-carrying him towards a man who had come up to the platform, bandages in hand. Catharine had turned and Quentin chose to focus on her face rather than the aftermath of the mutilation. Her cheeks were damp as she walked back through the crowd, ducking her head.
Felix touched his shoulder.
“Don’t,” Quentin said.
“I think we should talk.” The other man kept his voice low. Catharine hadn’t quite made it over to them yet. “About the other night. I want to know what business you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“None of yours,” he snapped.
“Your—fri—Asahel came to my door well past nightfall asking for my help. I don’t know whether you’ve regressed since university or not, Quentin, but I assume you’re still smart enough to know that his actions make it my business now.” Felix crossed his arms, the irritation palpable.
“It stopped being your business when you were too highhanded to walk me to my front door,” he said as Catharine came towards them, uncertain whether or not she could hear. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Carnicus, I need to escort my wife home.”
“Of course.” Sarcasm dripped from his tongue as he swept into a low bow, snatching Catharine’s hand and pressing his lips against it. Quentin scowled but said nothing, even as his wife gave Felix a warm smile. “Catharine, it is lovely to see you again. Your husband? Not so much.”
“Oh, Felix,” she sighed. Quentin noticed, however, that she gave no pretense of defending him. He tried to stiffen his face into a smile but failed, the scowl instead deepening. He noticed that Felix’s face had subsequently brightened.
“We ought to be going,” Quentin said, daring Felix to challenge him.
Catharine was not unaware of the tension between the two men. He could see her looking at them both, clearly measuring them up. Felix had straightened up and dropped her hand—it was the same fingers that reached out to him now in a rare gesture of affection as she squeezed his palm.
“A Judgment is hardly a happy occasion.” Her eyes narrowed as she said it. “I don’t want to linger here.”
“I had that sense,” Felix replied. “I do, however, have some business to discuss with you, Quentin.”
“Later,” Catharine said, her voice steady. “You can discuss it later, perhaps when I’m not present. I have no head for it now.” Quentin could feel his stomach sink as he realized that she had, perhaps, heard far more than he’d intended. Her hand was slipping away from his, returning to her dress and smoothing the folds out in a nervous gesture.
“Perhaps.” Felix offered her another bow, then turned to Quentin with a curt nod of his head. “Think about what I said.”
“I don’t think you’d allow me to do otherwise.” For once, there was no retort and he sighed as Felix walked away, his shoulders jabbing at others as he pushed his way to the street. Catharine was looking at him when he turned back, her eyes a little wider than they had been.
“I… let’s go home.” The space between her words struck him as suspicious. He opened his mouth to say as much but stopped.
“Yes. Let’s.”
There would be time to sort this all out later. Or not at all.
Chapter 9
It had been a month since they had gone into the ground but Asahel still felt the weight of it. As he stared down at his blunted nails, kept perpetually bitten to the quick, he expected to see earth beneath their ragged edges. It had been days until the dirt had completely shaken loose, clinging to the skin with a tenacity that had evoked inevitable comment from his mother.
“Wash your hands, son,” Mariel Soames had said, her voice not that of a loving mother to an adult son but of a watchful eye to a heedless adolescent.
If there was one thing Asahel was not, it was heedless.
It was caution that guided him as he walked up the giant marble steps that lined the exterior of the castle. The Winter Court was situated just below the highest point of the island, faintly overshadowed by the mountains.
He saw the nobles entering above him and Asahel paused, his way barred by a pair of crossed lances. The guards stared at him with expressionless faces and he doubted that they had ever been inside the maze within, a labyrinth of stone and shadow into which few were granted entrance. He himself only held it because of his magic- had he wished to bring Mariel, she could not have come. It was rare that Asahel used the privilege. He noticed that even here, the peers passing by gave him hardly a glance. As he stared upwards, he could not see either Quentin or his wife and so, with a long sigh, he began to make his way towards the lower entrance.
There were fewer guards at the bottom of the stairs. The doors that welcomed were thin and tall. The women who came through this passage were dressed simply, although still richly. Gems did not sparkle in hair but instead hung demurely from a slender neck, where they hung at all. A few nodded as he passed although he did not recognize them.
The ballroom yawned out before him as he entered, his heavy frame feeling slower as he compared himself to the graceful dancers on the floor. Dresses swished together, the rustle of fabric where it touched like a whisper on marble. Pushing through the crowd, he walked over to the table where the matrons hovered like a murder of crows, dark dresses making harsh faces harsher still.
“Soames,” one greeted. “I hadn’t expected to see you.” The tone of her voice told him quite clearly that she disapproved of his presence, something that did not surprise him. The others at the table turned to stare at him, a merchant at their table. Straightening his back, he took a glass, managing to look resolute as he nodded simply in reply. Clucking her tongue, the woman returned to her glass with a sniff. Inwardly, he groaned. He should have thought of something clever. However, clever was one thing he was not.
The glass chilled his fingers as he walked to the wall, pressing his back against it as he drank deeply. The taste was sour and he winced at it. There was no one near who would know Quentin and his eyes sought the man himself, knowing that he would be at the far end of the room.
He was easy enough to find, after a moment’s glance. His shock of dark auburn hair stood out, fl
ocked as it was by a crowd of young women, the tinkling of their laughter drifting across the floor. Quent said something, obviously meant to tease, and Asahel watched silently as the women around him tittered again. One leaned against his arm, staring up at him with fluttering pale eyes; her lips blushed with her smile.
His friend appeared not to notice. While his face was grinning, his eyes remained distant and Asahel took another drink as he looked for the reason why. Catharine.
That was who he headed for when he saw her. She stood apart, always, at any gathering- not because of her beauty but for the opposite. She had been marked by the Plagues. The hint of the years of pestilence could be seen throughout the room, with women artistically draping scarves and veils to hide the scars and weals that the sickness had left on those who suffered it young. Catharine did none of that, however- her deformities were left for the world to see, angry red blots against her pale skin, brown hair pulled defiantly back to display them. She was watching Quentin, drowned as he was in the sea of the young, her own young face still. Asahel could not read what she was thinking, though he suspected that he could imagine it.
Taking a deep breath, he began to walk towards where she stood, her feet motionless despite the gentle rhythm of fife and drum.
The observers at the sides of the room paused and he thought that he could hear a collective hush of surprise as he walked to her. Asahel stumbled into a slight bow, halted by her words.
“Stand up.” Catharine murmured. “They’re staring, as it is. Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”
He could feel his ears begin to redden as he pulled himself upright. Her mouth was pulled into a quirked smile. The expression looked wrong on her face- as if she didn’t quite know how to do it.
“I-”
“No need.” She broke the sentence with a wave, her eyes sparkling at him despite their darkness. “I think that I know who you are. My husband went to university with you- didn’t he?” Her voice was low enough for only him to hear as she leaned forward, a strand of brown hair falling from the tight knot pinned to her head. He wondered if Quentin was watching the both of them- they had never been formally introduced and so for her to know of him must mean that he had spoken of Asahel to her privately.
“He did.” Asahel said cautiously. “But we’ve never been introduced.”
“No,” she agreed sagely. “I don’t like introductions. Particularly not to Quentin’s crowd.” Her smile turned as both their heads craned to see the courtiers ringed in a circle near Quentin. The redhead had fallen silent but another man had taken his place, telling some sort of story that had blushes on every cheek but Quentin’s. Asahel suspected his friend wasn’t listening. He noticed that he was pointedly staring into a space separated from the two of them.
“I’m not part of them.”
“I noticed.” the woman said. It was obviously a reference to his clothing, fine but not expensively cut, or to the way that he held himself, slouching under her gaze. Her eyes grew kinder as she added, “I’m not either.” But her fingers betrayed her, moving with a grace that Asahel had seen only among that group as they fluttered before him, taking his hand, the pale of an unblemished wrist slipping loose from under gossamer fabric. He took it, as he had seen others do, lips pressing against it without hesitation before he released her. Her eyes appeared surprised at his willingness to touch her and he noticed that her hand hovered for a moment longer in the air than it needed to.
“Asahel Soames,” he said quietly.
“Catharine Gredara.” She tossed her hair back, the light catching a jagged scar near her eye. “But you already knew. This small talk- we’re going in circles. I think we’d better dance if you’ve something to tell me. Talking too much will have this lot thinking any manner of things.”
Stammering, Asahel said, “Do you like dancing? Quentin said you can’t stand it.”
“Quentin’s never asked.” Her hand fell against his as she began to move him to the ballroom floor. He could feel the stiffness in her skin, however. Whatever she said, it felt a lie as their palms met, a shiver in her own. They made an awkward pair as they began to move into the circle and he was thankful that this dance, at least, was slow. “I don’t think that you came to speak with me for no reason.”
“No, you’d be right.” He agreed. His foot took a step forward- she, he noticed, took two steps back. “I need to speak to Quent.”
“Then speak to him.”
Asahel’s eyes fixed upon her. He noticed that she was staring at the floor as she said it. All that was visible was the rich knot of brown hair, glistening in the soft lights of the floor, glinting red and golden in its shade. Candlelight was kind to her, making her hazy, the red pocks of her skin pinking in the soft light. Staring at the curve of her neck, he noticed that her heart was beating quickly, a blue vein throbbing against the skin.
“I can’t. You know that.”
“They’d eat you alive?” Catharine laughed harshly, still not looking up at him. “Oh, I know that. But I’m not his handmaid, to be carrying messages for whatever purpose the two of you may have dreamed up.”
“You’re his wife,” Asahel murmured.
“And his property?” Her tart tongue replied. “No, I’d say it’s more the opposite, perhaps. My father bought him- everyone knows that.”
His mouth dropped open, surprised that she would say a thing like that. As the music lifted, he spun her with the pattern of the dance, his hands firm on her back. He was facing Quentin now and he could see the other man’s face staring at his wife with a look that spoke of something precious lost.
“Don’t look shocked that I’ve caught you out.” He felt her hands grip his hard for a moment until he was forced to look at the woman, her eyes flashing. “What is it about then? Some shipment of spices or some investment that he’s absolutely got to fund? You wouldn’t be the first ‘friend’ of his to try and profit from his good fortune.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“About what?”
Asahel stilled. The sudden halt sent them both jerking slightly to the side and she gasped slightly as he wrenched her hand. The other dancers moved around them smoothly as she stared up at him, pulling her wrist away and rubbing it where he had gripped too hard. Quentin began to move from the far wall and he saw that he only had a moment before his friend reached the both of them.
She saw it too and whispered, her voice sharp, “About what?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “Not now. But it’s important- tell Quentin we have to talk.” And he realized how ridiculous that was as the other man reached the place where they were standing, his eyes glittering green like a snake about to strike.
“Catharine.” Quentin’s voice said, with a pinched air clearly meant for Asahel himself. The pair of them had agreed at the beginning of their studies never to speak in public. “Is this man bothering you?”
This man. He stepped back, his hands releasing hers as she looked into his eyes.
“No.” She didn’t look away from Asahel as she said it, her head giving one quick nod even as her eyes told him to walk. Quentin’s hand reached for hers after Asahel had released it and he noticed that she slipped her fingers back to fingering the folds of her dress so that he couldn’t take it. He saw Quent’s lip suck in, then pause as he began to walk with his wife away from the ballroom floor.
“Could I ask you for a dance then?” He heard his friend say as the couple began to blend into the crowd.
“No,” and her voice cut sharply through the longing cry of the violins. “I don’t dance.”
Chapter 10
Bells were ringing in the distance, the clanging breaking the occasional cry of the fishwives as they shouted to one another on the docks. A large fish went flying through the air as Quentin passed a booth, stopping to gawk at the silvery scales that shone in the light above him and the stout woman who caught it, hugging it tightly to her chest as it wriggled downwards. Coppers rained in the air o
ver his head as she tossed them to the vendor, then went scuttling down the cobblestones, her body almost rolling in its uneven gait.
“Fish?” A man jumped in front of him, waving a piece of a fin. “Fish for the gentleman?”
“No, thank you,” Quentin managed, his face struggling not to break into laughter. “Against my religion.” It appeared to confuse the man and he pushed past, his grin surfacing as he hurried down the narrow alley towards the docks. He wondered to himself if there ever had been a religion to forbid such a thing and decided that probably there hadn’t.
There was something within him that always sang out as he stepped on the narrow boards that comprised the docks owned by the Soames family. The boards themselves were old, patched in places and near to rotting in others, but he could sense care in those that had been repaired. It could have been the magic in them, given that Asahel himself could often be seen on bended knee, pounding nail after nail into the wood, but Quentin liked to think of it as something more. An affinity with the island itself, perhaps. His feet skipped across the boards, pausing as they saw Asahel.
Catharine had told him little of what his friend had discussed with her, giving him no more than the fact that Asahel had asked to speak with him. He wondered at the fact that the other man hadn’t come to him directly, promise or not.
Asahel read that uncertainty in his eyes. His mouth stuttered out a “Hello” as he drove a last nail into a protruding board, then picked up the hammer and clumsily rose to his feet.
“Fixing things?” Quentin asked. He shifted slightly, eyeing the shorter man. His fingers reached up to his head, nervously smoothing his hair down.
“Yes.” He looked down at the dock, smile fading as he amended, “Sort of.”