by J. M. Frey
My insides curl with the audacity and impropriety of it—and yet I cannot help but flex a few of the fingers of the hand closest to my head, to run their tips gently across the tickling strands of hair at the back of Pip’s head. How gloriously intimate.
How bold of me.
I shy back, wriggling slowly to get off the mattress without alerting Pip of my shameful imposition. Pip remains still and silent beside me, the lamps turned down in her chamber and her breathing steady in the thin darkness of early morning. As soon as my socked feet are on the floor, I retrieve my boots from beside the bed—I don’t remember removing them, just as I don’t remember turning down the lamp. Was it Mother Mouth who did? Or Neris? Or, Writer forbid, Velshi? What must my staff think of me now?
Lecherous, opportunistic old man, I scold myself.
Boots collected, I tiptoe to the door. The creak of the hinges sounds loud in the dawn’s glow, and Pip stirs.
“Mmm. Fo’sth?” she mutters.
Blast and drat!
“Yes, Pip?”
“Mornin’?”
“Not quite. Go back to sleep,” I say soothingly. “I’ll, uh, I’ll come back with some breakfast and a bath for you later, okay?” Now that most of her wounds have closed, she can be immersed, and I think she will enjoy the treat.
“Mm, yeah, okay,” she says, and turns her face the other way on her pillow, burrowing down into the comfort and warmth of the blankets. She inhales and reaches out, hooking the pillow I just abandoned and pulling it against her face.
Just to block out the morning’s light, I tell myself. Not because it smells like me.
Full of cowardice and shame, I flee to my own chambers. I wait in darkness and silence, alone, for the sun to fully rise. Once it is up, and the hour is a decent one for being awake, I summon Velshi to my chambers, bidding him bring tea and the bathtub. I feel grimy, and a soak sounds divine. I don’t think Pip will begrudge me a turn with the bathing tub first.
Cook rounds up an excellent breakfast from last night’s leftovers. I nibble and read my Men’s reports while I float. Pointe has left a rambling letter about how the rest of the night went, his handwriting difficult to decipher because he was clearly pleasantly drunk by the time he got round to it.
I inquire after my brother while I am drip-drying in my chambers. The servants remove the tub, and Velshi allows all of a single emotion to cross his otherwise butler-blank features: annoyance. He reports that Kintyre and Bevel haven’t been seen since they stormed out of the hall, but that their travel gear is still in Kintyre’s chambers, so they haven’t left yet.
When I’m all caught up on my paperwork, I put on some casual clothing and grab the food tray. Buoyed by the thought of no Kintyre, no Bevel, and no duties save for rest and thus spending the whole of the day with Pip, I take the stairs to her chambers two at a time.
When I get there, I am startled to find the door open. My staff have wrestled the large copper tub into the room, and it is sitting before the hearth, half filled with steaming water. Neris is standing beside the fireplace, outwardly watching the kettle boil but, in actuality, glaring at the bed without seeming to look at it.
Pip is sitting up, a light robe draped over her back as she leans against the tent pole of her crooked knees. She has her arms wrapped around her shins and an expression of thunderous fury on her face.
Before her, Bevel Dom sits cross-legged, his back to me.
I pause on the threshold to eavesdrop. Neris spots me, but I shake my head, warning her against making any move to give away my presence.
“I don’t know what to do,” Bevel is saying, reaching out to take Pip’s hand. She jerks it out of his reach.
“You can get the hell out. That would be a good start,” Pip snaps.
“Miss Piper, please, you have to understand . . . this has been a secret for so long. I don’t know how to talk to him! He’s my best friend, he’s my confidant, he’s my partner, and, because of what you said, because he knows now, he won’t even look at me.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“But it is your fault! Please!”
“What do you want me to say?” she asks. “If he’s disgusted by your regard, then he’s a hypocritical asshole.”
“He’s not disgusted! He’s never been disgusted. When we . . . when we’re . . . with women,” —he swallows, clicking and sticking, and I find that there is a swell of pity for Bevel building under my ribs— “he touches me. He kisses me. He . . . lays with me. But he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love anyone.”
I cannot hold in the ironic snort, and Bevel whips his head around, dark eyes wide with the shock of being caught. Then, they narrow with fury. He shoots off the bed and slams me up against the doorjamb. The tray of breakfast clatters out of my hands, sending breads and cold meats into the air like a spray. He presses his elbow into my throat.
“You think this is funny?” he snarls into my face.
“Bevel!” Pip squawks.
He pushes me back hard, snaps my head into the wood; stars bloom in the sides of my vision. I scrabble at his arm, but he is stronger than I, and his strength is doubled by his anger.
“She’s ruined everything!”
“Bevel, stop it!” Pip cries.
Bevel slams my head into the wall a third time, but then lets go and takes a step back, panting and red-faced. “He makes them fall in love with him, and then he runs. He thinks it’s a game. I did, too. But now he knows, and he’s going to run away from me.”
“I . . . don’t,” I croak, hands on my throat.
“Don’t what?” Bevel snaps.
“I don’t think it’s funny,” I admit. There is water on the credenza, and I grope my way along the wall until I can wrap my hands around one of the cups. I gulp, catching my breath, and then turn to face Bevel.
He is standing by the open door, face buried in his hands, shoulders rigid and posture so completely still it is like the adventure where the gorgon turned him into a statue.
“I don’t think it’s funny, Sir Dom,” I say. “And I think it’s sad, because I think there is no better partnership than yours. You and my brother were, I think, quite literally written for each other. You balance each other too well. And I pity you, Sir Dom, because you are right. My brother loves no one but himself.”
Bevel’s renewed anger rises swiftly, and he drops his hands into fists.
“Curse you, Forsyth Turn! And you, you mouthy bitch!” he snaps at Pip. “Curse you both!” He runs out of the room, leaping over the fallen tray, and vanishes down the hall.
I am not surprised to hear from Velshi, several minutes later, that Kintyre Turn and Bevel Dom have departed Turn Hall. I am surprised to hear that they did so in each other’s presence.
✍
“Now what will you do?” I ask Pip.
She is seated in the tub, a layer of bubbles preserving her modesty as I scrub my long fingers and the soap into her hair. I should feel faintly embarrassed that I am acting as her lady’s maid, that she is here and nude, but all I feel is the warm glow of companionship and the comfort of a shared secret and respect.
I am also doing my absolute best to block out any sexual thoughts. I am not here to impose my desires upon Pip, I am here to be kind, and to help her with a task she is unable to perform alone. But oh, how I wish this were romantic. How I long to strip myself down, to slide into the warm water behind her, cradle her back against my chest, hug her close between my thighs . . .
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to take long, cool breaths. No. No.
I am listening too much to Pointe and the part of me that . . . points.
Instead of ridiculous fantasies, I focus on the feel of my fingers against Pip’s scalp, and the glow of satisfaction that curls along my spine, knowing that my brother is gone and that he has left in a horrid mood. It is cruel of me, to wish misery on Bevel Dom, but he is not above reproach himself. And there is something satisfying about watching one’s tormentors suffe
r through actions of their own.
I am still worried, of course. He is the only hero I know and have leverage with, and I trusted him—if not with Pip’s body and heart, then at least to finish the quest and do his duty as her champion. There are other heroes, but I do not know them personally and cannot vouch that they will be as reliable as Kintyre Turn. And yet, I must contact and engage someone to guide Pip on her quest.
When she is ready.
A new flare of warmth floods my insides when I reflect on the fact that Pip will not be ready for any kind of adventuring for several more weeks. Pip has made it clear that she holds no desire for Kintyre, that she will not be my brother’s woman, and for the first time, I have hope that I can convince her to turn her eye to me.
Now, if I could only find a way to be less stupid, less gawkish, less of an embarrassment. If only I could prove to her that I can live up to her assessment of me as a great man. I can work very hard and watch what I say very carefully, and be brilliant, just as she says I am.
“Now what?” she murmurs, distracted by the way I am scratching her scalp with my fingernails, light and gentle. “Hmm. Now, I’m thinking that you’re going to hand me some more of that lovely soft cheese on that toasty bread.”
Neris replaced the fallen breakfast tray, so I rinse and dry my hands and obey. I compose the snack and hold it out for her, but instead of reaching for it, she simply opens her mouth.
Right. Yes. I swallow hard and tell myself, very firmly, that I can do this. That it is not horribly intimate, it is just practical. Pip’s hands are wet and soapy.
I press the bread forward, slowly, and Pip closes her lips over half of it. Her bottom lip brushes the very tip of my thumb, and I have to take a deep, slow breath to keep myself from either startling away (which is my first instinct), or dropping the morsel entirely in my shock.
Deliberately, Pip presses white teeth through the snack and nips off half of it.
Pip grins around her mouthful. “This stuff is bliss.” I feed her the second half, and she takes it with a flutter of her eyelashes. Her throat as she swallows is wholly unremarkable, and yet I cannot make myself look away.
“I agree,” I say, leaning back in my chair and indulging in my own slice of bread and cheese to keep me from pressing the thumb she inadvertently kissed against my mouth. “But what I meant was . . . now that Kintyre and Bevel have declined to be your champions, how will you . . . quest?”
She stiffens slightly in the steaming water. We’ve been dancing around the topic all day, but it needs to be discussed. I only hope it does not bring on another episode.
There is silence as she contemplates my question. She finishes off her snack and sinks lower in the water. The bubbles on the surface brush her bottom lip when she finally answers: “I want you to write it all down for me. Step by step. How he brought me here, and how I get . . . h-home.”
“Pip, we’ve already talked about this. You cannot go alone.”
“I don’t intend to.” She turns and looks meaningfully at me.
Dread slips under my skin. “Oh, Pip, no,” I mumble. “No, you are not serious. You cannot be.”
“Why not?” she asks, turning over in the water and pillowing her chin on arms she crosses over the edge of the tub. “I’ve seen how you deal with conflict—you’re levelheaded and collected. You’re a great swordsman, you’re smart as hell, and, best of all, you’re the Shadow Hand. You’ve got enough dirt on everyone in Hain to get us loads of free rooms at inns and help along the journey.”
“Pip, I’m not a hero!”
“I don’t need a hero. I need a guide. Between the two of us, I think we can get it all figured out. It will be tough, but we can do it.”
“But I can’t fight. I can’t best trolls and wrestle serpents and lasso flying horses!”
She frowns. “Am I asking you to? Why would we get into those sorts of ridiculous situations? You’re a professional spy. I’m sure we can get everything we need and do it on the sly. The Viceroy won’t even know we’re doing it, and then I can . . .” She stops and swallows, shaking her head resolutely. “Then I can go home to my family.”
I pause at the odd tone in her voice. “I thought you said you had no one at home waiting for you.”
She screws her eyes shut and shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature of the bathwater.
“It’s all screwed up in my head,” she whispers. “I think . . . I don’t know what I think. I want to go home, but I’m terrified to think of it. I miss my parents, my friends, so badly, and yet there is something that is keeping me from thinking of them. It scares me, Forsyth. It scares me so much. I want to go, and I am scared to go. It’s like someone else is in my head, pushing against the lock, while someone else is . . . barring the door.”
I kneel on the floor beside the tub and take her face between my hands, gentle. “Look at me, Pip.”
She does, and her pupils are pinpricks of fear.
“You daren’t think about your home, and your family, because you were protecting them. I have seen this before in men who have been tortured. Your mind locked them away in a place that Bootknife could not get them from you, and though you are safe, your mind believes that it must keep them under guard. You are safe, Pip. You can release them now.”
Fat tears roll down her cheeks and over my thumbs, and she sniffles, forcing a smile. “Goddamn PTSD.”
“Ah,” I whisper. “You have been very brave, Lucy Piper, but your war is over, and you are here with me now. And I will be with you for as long as it takes for you to readjust. Take all the time you need.”
She presses her cheek into my palm, and I run my other hand over her soapy shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“You are very welcome,” I reply. “And then, when you are healed and ready, we will find you a real hero, a smarter and stronger and braver man than I to take you on your quest.”
Pip stops nuzzling and looks up at me, eyebrows drawing down into a concerned ‘v’. “I already said I want to travel with you.”
I smile. “Ah. You weren’t serious.”
“I was serious, Forsyth. I meant it. Honestly, I meant it.” She sits up in the tub, so far that the beautiful valley of her breasts appears out of the snow of bubbles. I wrench my eyes back up to meet her own.
“No, you were not, Pip. You’ll reconsider. Stupid, fat old Forsyth Turn is not a good choice. I’m just happy that you’ll allow me to be by your side while you heal. Then we’ll say our farewells, and you will go off and have your grand adventure.”
“Why do you talk about yourself like that?” Pip asks quietly. “Why do you believe Kintyre when he talks about you? You don’t believe him when he says those sorts of things about me, or about Pointe, but when he says it about you, you take him at face value. Why?”
“Because it’s true.”
Pip makes a frustrated sound and grabs both my ears in her hands. It hurts, and she twists them until I relent and meet her gaze. “It. Is. Not. True. Do you understand me, Forsyth Turn? Are you listening to me? You are not fat. You are not gawky, or stupid, or useless, or unlovable. You are a good man. You are a better man than your brother, and you will stop investing in what he says about you right this instant, or else.”
It feels like acid poured into the hollows of my ribs. Why won’t she stop lying to me?
“Or else what?” I challenge, hurting and wanting to lash out, wanting to make her hurt the way she is making my whole world crumble around me.
“Or else I will never kiss you.”
I can suddenly taste my heart in the back of my throat, and hear my blood rushing in my ears. I swallow hard and cannot help it when my eyes drop down to her mouth, cannot help envisioning the soft press of her slightly chapped lips against my own, the prickle of my stubble against her chin, the cool touch of her nose nestled into my cheek, the taste of her tongue as it slides over my teeth.
“Ki-k-k-kiss,” I struggle to say.
“Not y
et,” she whispers, and I can feel her warm breath puffing against my face. I let my mouth drop open to catch it. “When we’re both ready, I will. I want to. But not yet.”
She pulls away, and I have the dignity not to follow her with my face, offering myself up to the promise of her embrace like a minotaur’s sacrifice. I slump onto the floor by the tub, resting against the warm metal in order to stay upright. She looks down at me, pets the side of my head with the soft backs of her damp fingers, runs her nails lightly through my hair.
“Maybe it’s just the Florence Nightingale effect, but I do like you, Forsyth Turn. Your brother is wrong. Your staff love and shield you from your brother’s destructive moods. Pointe defends you, and the people of Lysse Chipping think you’re the best lordling they’ve ever known. They practically worship you. And the Shadow’s Men are so incredibly loyal . . . I don’t think the king has as much respect as you do. Forsyth, people love you. Why can’t you see that? Kintyre was wrong. You are loved.”
“Do-do you l-lo-lov—”
Pip smiles sadly and puts one finger over my lips, halting my clumsy, terrifying question before it can escape out into the open. “I don’t know,” she admits. “But I think I could. Will you give me the time I need to figure it out?”
I nod. Oh, how badly I want to tell her of the admiration I feel for her, to show her. How I want to struggle against my inherent nature and prove to Pip that her love will not be an unwelcome gift, that I will treasure it, that I will acknowledge how wonderful and rare and incredible it would be to receive it.
But I do not. Because she has asked for time. I am not my brother—I can respect her requests. And because the thought of such a bold action frankly frightens me. Would it really be welcome?
She turns over and leans back in the tub, still mincing like an old woman with sore joints the day before an approaching storm. I return to my chair. We watch one another in mutual, anticipatory silence, and I let my gaze wander over her in a way I feared would be too bold before. I linger on the smooth column of her graceful neck, plan the love bites I will put right there, just under her ear. I admire the curve of her shoulder and breasts, the plumpness of her bottom lip, the round at the base of her chin that shows she has lived a well-fed, good life. I imagine burying my face in her short, silky hair, the feel of her hands on my back, her nails digging into my buttocks, all the things that I would not allow myself to imagine before because before they could never be mine.