The SAVAGE Series, Books 1-3: The Pearl Savage, The Savage Blood and The Savage Principle

by Blodgett, Tamara Rose

  “What say you, Olive?” Clara smiled at Olive; who was prone to be silly.

  “Oh, it is nothing, my lady, I was lost in my thoughts,” she looked down, blushing.

  “It is the male, yes?”

  Olive nodded.

  Clara was not sure about all the giggling and silliness that accompanied the supposition of the opposite sex, it was bewildering. She could not figure it. However, there were so few men that she could have considered as a royal, and now that choice had been stolen from her. What was there to suppose? Or, for that matter, to dream about. Better to keep her mind about her tasks... her people.

  Clara sighed, “Yes, he was... definitely male enough.” Clara said, remembering the height, the menace, the impressive musculature.

  “Oh yes mistress, frighteningly male!” she laughed.

  Clara turned and threw a pillow at Olive, which winged her alongside her head and she laughed harder, unable to stand upright. Finally, she clutched the pillow and flung it back at Clara, who caught it deftly, hugging it to her chest, she laughed with Olive, just two young women, one a Princess and one her friend, forging an alliance in an uncertain time.

  Clara dressed quickly, making sure that her skirt covered the ivory flesh of her ankles, it would not do to show those about, and gathering herself, she proceeded to the kitchen to eat a small bowl of oatmeal and honey. She set her sights on a quick chat with Sarah, her only female friend aside from Olive, a school teacher, wise and true. She would have wisdom to bestow.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Queen was not about at present so Clara took her meal perched on one of the servant's stools, her favorite place. The cook, William, whom she called Billy, as her father had before her, appraised her with knowing eyes, “Princess Clara, are you about the fields today?”

  Clara nodded, “It is best I make myself scarce.”

  “How is that different than your normal duties?”

  “The Queen was in ill temper last evening and it would be well-advised that I take my leave early.” Clara dug into the oatmeal with relish, she would be hungry soon even with this porridge before her. Billy's eyes roamed her neckline, though high, showed a sliver of a bruise which marked the skin about the lace. She shifted, hoping that little bit of cotton cloth may slide into position.

  “She been after you again?” His kind eyes held a long-standing compassion.

  She sighed, “Yes. She was unhappy with my behavior at my Day of Birth Celebration.” Clara looked down at her oatmeal, appetite gone.

  Billy put his face on his elbows, two hand's breadths away from Clara's, “She is a disastrous monarch, Princess, do not fret. Soon, you will be on the throne and she will not dare injure you then.”

  “This is true, as long as the wine flows.”

  He looked at the bruise buried on her throat, anger darkening his expression, “If the King were here, this abuse would not happen.” He held his wooden spatula like a weapon, his knuckles turning white from the grip.

  “Speak not of that, Billy. We cannot change circumstance.”

  “And Prince Frederic,” he sputtered but before he could go on she held up a hand, “Enough, my friend. I am honor-bound to attend my subjects, you know this.”

  His sad face regarded her, “I do not have to like it, Princess.”

  “Nor I.”

  Clara pushed the half-eaten bowl of oatmeal away, standing and brushing off her skirts. Looking up she saw Billy staring at her, “I have prepared a pail for your lunch, my lady.”

  Clara inclined her head in thanks, “Thank you so much.”

  “You are most welcome. Tell my boys 'hello' for me.”

  Clara smiled, thinking of the brothers which were the captains of her small pungy, aptly named, Clara's Folly. It had been Father's, who named it for his small girl that loved the fields and the pearls that lay within.

  She scooped up the pail with her lunch, laid in ice...maybe the oysters would be fresh when she needed to eat them. She peeked inside and saw that Billy had packed her favorite, tangerines. She adored tangerines, bought at high price from the Kingdom of Michigan, who had acres of hothouses in which to grow fruit that filled one's palm. Her mouth watered thinking of it like the sweetest of candy.

  Clara said her goodbye to Billy, making her way down the long hall which would take her through the middle of the Gathering Room. Upon entering, she glanced at the great clock which was a whisper away from chiming eight o'clock. She was later than she had meant to be, she needed to make haste, speak with dear Sarah, then very nearly run to the fields to be at the pier in one half hour hence.

  Clara picked up her skirts, hustling along the corridor until she came to the front door, where the butler waited at the ready.

  “Princess Clara,” Peter greeted her.

  “Hello, Peter, how do you do?”

  “Very well, Princess. Off to the fields?”

  Queen Ada never spoke to the servants, she commanded them. Clara loved being the Princess to her people, they gave her purpose in the madness.

  “Yes, but not straightaway. First I must chat with Sarah.”

  “Yes, mum. Perfect, then the fields.”

  He knew her too well, “Yes, then the fields.” she smiled. Peter, like Billy, had been here in the royal family home before she was in existence. They treated her well. Peter's eyes flicked to the mar on her skin, but said nothing. His eyes spoke for him, where hard anger glinted. Ada was not popular and the few that were wise to Clara's abuse made her even less so.

  She gave Peter a frightened look, “Do not worry, mum, a word will not be uttered,” he said it tightly, costing him something not to defend her.

  She let her relief show on her face, “Thank you.”

  He nodded and held the door open.

  Clara stepped outside, the concrete stairs, six in all, deep and wide, they stretched before her, curving around both sides of the staircase. Walking to the end of the cobblestone path, opening the iron gate, she turned, latching it behind her. Her hand still resting on the black iron she glanced up at the Royal Manse, loving the look of it, as ostentatious as it was. The stained glass artisans, having outdone themselves with scrolling flowers and animals gracing all the tops of the windows, offering jeweled light inside every nook, albeit interior sphere light. As a child, she had enjoyed playing on the stairwell, the stained glass panel at the turn, one that still enraptured Clara. The scene was one of a fantastical mermaid, a woman captured in a net, the sea all about her in a riot. She had asked her father of it.

  *

  “There is a sea Clara, far beyond here.”

  “Outside, Father?”

  “Yes, far beyond the spheres, as the seawater can damage the spheres.”

  “What must it be like, Father?”

  “You remember the field of Samuel's Pearls?”

  “Yes, the field under guard?”

  Her father nodded. It was the singular saltwater field, where special protections were in place because of the dangers of saltwater. The rare Samuel's Pearls were cultivated there.

  “That was named for my father's father, Samuel.” He saw her expression and laughed, “Yes, there was an actual Samuel. He had a daughter, Stella. And when she was a girl, they would holiday in a place named Cape Cod. This place stood on a great sea, called the Atlantic Ocean. In this place were cold waters, which tasted of salt. There is a ground there, which lay at its feet, of small shells that are crushed, the water moves back and forth on this carpet of sand. Samuel said that his daughter made castles of sand at the edge of this sea.”

  Clara stood silently, thinking of a girl her age, at the edge of a great water where the real sun shone, and the wind moved the waters. She sighed with pleasure, “Are there mermaids?”

  Father laughed from his belly, “No, those are myth. But, I will tell you...that your eyes remind me of the sea. Those waters look like your eyes, Clara. A part of the sea remains with you. You have only to engage the looking glass to know those waters.”

&
nbsp; Clara stared at the mermaid, suspended in raging waters, pearls glistening in hair the color of butter, her eyes a pale lavender blue, the glass increasing the intensity. The pale light from the sphere piercing the glass, she seemed to float on a mist of emerald waters washed by brilliant blue.

  She turned to her father, “Tell me more of the sea, Father...”

  Clara turned away from the Royal Manse, and with it, the happy memory. She walked down the sidewalk, avoiding the unevenness of the wider street, leaving that for horses and carts, although there were not many. She rounded the corner, leaving the treed park to the east of her home and saw the sign hanging off a scrolling iron bracket, which read, School for Children, Reading, Writing and Arithmetic.

  She glanced at the sphere wall, distracting herself by looking at the Great Forest Outside. Subconsciously, she was hoping to catch sight of the savages again. Stumbling, she righted herself. She needed to watch her footing, in the transition between the sidewalk and a boardwalk made of wood to the wider street with uneven cobblestone, it was easy to lose ones footing. Careless of her. She hopped up the steps, her light beige linen skirt weighing her legs down as she moved. At least it was not the season for wool! That weighed an hideous amount.

  She peered in the window anchored at eye level in a massive door made of oak and used the bell. It chimed shrilly and she saw a smart-looking girl, two years her senior stroll to the door, while faces appeared behind her, curious to see who was visiting. When they saw that it was she, the Princess, hands were raised with hushed whispers behind them.

  Sarah's face appeared in the glass, slightly distorted by the waviness of the pane. Her pale blonde hair was plaited in a severe braid on the lower part of her head. Sarah believed in each hair in its place, but she could not contain her impish manner, she was lively, with a friendly countenance, a perfect disposition for a teacher.

  “Come in, Clara,” she said Clara's name low, for it would be unseemly for anyone to address Clara thus, and as Clara stepped inside the foyer Sarah asked, “What brings you?”

  “I wish to visit but must attend the fields. Mayhap later this evening you can call?”

  “Does this have anything to do with your pronouncement last eve?”

  Clara smiled, Sarah was anything but stupid, “Yes, and there are other... more sensitive matters I wish to discuss.”

  Sarah laughed, clapping her hands together, “Brilliant! Just name your time, Princess.”

  Clara grinned, she thought Sarah wonderful. She was just the balm Clara needed and quickly calculated the safest time, “What of half past seven o'clock?”

  “That is perfect. I will see you then.”

  Clara gave a quick look down the corridor and saw a paper glider fly through the air, meeting its mark in the pigtail of a stout girl with deep chestnut hair, who squawked, “Thomas Harding, I am telling Miss Sarah.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, “I must go.”

  Clara nodded, holding back laughter and Sarah leaned in, giving her cheek a kiss. And with that, the door closed and Clara watched Sarah regain control of a classroom run amuck.

  Clara whirled, galloping down the stairs in a near trot (very unladylike, and certainly, exceedingly un-royal), at a near run for the pier. As she neared it, she could see the poles marking the fields, the water lapping the shore, the sand here not that of the great sea that Father spoke of but a respite from her life, one she would gladly take.

  She could just make out the dark forms of Russel and Sydney. Their poles were buried in the soft muck of the bottom. She slowed her pace, seeing their laughing faces. They thought that she was most un-royal in her bearing. Clara agreed. Billy's sons waited for her as she approached the pungy. She used Russel's arm for balance upon entry into the boat, hopping down with expert grace, having done it a thousand times before.

  “High color for your Highness.” Russel laughed, upon seeing her rosy cheeks.

  “You were running again? A Princess running!” Sydney teased.

  “There will be hell to pay if the Queen sees you, Princess,” Russel stated.

  Sydney flicked the collar of her blouse, noting the bruise, “looks like there already was.”

  The laughter faded as the men regarded her. She looked down, embarrassed. She should have insisted on a different garment, one that could hide Ada's fingerprints.

  Russel used a finger to tilt her chin up so their eyes could meet, “no Princess, do not be ashamed. It is not you who should feel guilty, it is she.”

  Sydney nodded agreement, “she needs some of her own handiwork laid upon her. She would understand better then, me thinks.”

  “Shh, do not say such,” Clara put a finger to his lips and Sydney grasped it, kissing it then letting it fall.

  Clara's blush deepened. Sydney had made it clear if she were not Princess, he would have courted her. It made things vaguely uncomfortable between them but Clara maintained more friends were better. She needed all the allies she could manage.

  Russel cleared his throat, “Let us cast off.”

  Sydney looked at his brother sharply, then nodded, “Yes, alright.”

  They untethered the lines and Clara took stock of the wooden pails, she counted one only.

  “Where is the fresh water bucket?” she asked, setting her lunch pail in the box built for such things.

  Instead Russel was all for asking after her lunch, “What have you in your pail today, Princess?” he asked in that sly tone she knew well.

  Clara laughed, he was after her tangerines to be sure.

  Sydney wound the rope on the brass cleats watching the interchange closely, “Do not take what little food our Princess eats, brother,” he sounded with disapproval, his eyes roving over Clara's slender form.

  Undaunted, Russel pushed the boat toward the fields with his well-worn pole, “Ah, the Princess has father pack extra of the sweet gems of orange, yes?”

  Clara smiled, “Yes, I may have enough to spare... if you behave yourself.”

  Russel grinned back at her, ever the jokester, he and Sydney's muscled forearms straining for just the right momentum as to not over shoot the first of the fields as they approached. The familiar woven fences came into view and the men stabbed their poles opposite each other to stabilize the pungy alongside the fence which held the oysters. Clara looked at their ghostly white forms under the shallow waters of the Great Lake, she held fast as the brothers used the stern to leap into the shallow water, rising fast to their calves. Clara readied herself to grade the first of their efforts.

  The men searched the baskets for the largest (and oldest) oysters in the culch. There were few to be had, seeing the basket weighed down with less than a dozen. Clara sighed. She would need to use divers at the center of the Great Lake again, fed by the Ohio River. It was there that she would possibly meet the quota that the Queen had set forth. Ada wished to have the rare, round pearls instead of the baroque pearls that were the natural shape of what they cultivated. The round were lovely... but at what cost? Clara hated the need for divers, sometimes these males holding their breath for a depth of over forty feet. For what? A pearl to satisfy the Queen's need for yet another strand about her neck? Foolhardy was a word she assigned to the Queen more often than not. She gazed to the furthest point her eye could take her, where the middle of the lake lay, small sphere-dwellings surrounding the deepest trenches of the lake. By week's end, she would take the pungy to meet with the pearl divers, to inform them their services would be needed again. That would also mean a meeting with Ada. Clara could not avoid her all the time she supposed.

  Russel leaped back into the pungy, making it rock chaotically to and fro, Clara's footing remaining true. Turning, he reached for the basket and dragged it inside, placing it on the floorboards. Clara looked at the biggest of the oysters, prying one and if adequate, take the rest for harvest. She grabbed her glove, and using her left hand, held the oyster tightly, grasping her oyster knife, she worked the tip in at the most open part by the hinge, moving back a
nd forth until she finally flipped the knife vertically, breaking the stubborn shell open. Letting the muck drain while pressing the knife against the creature, Russel handed Clara the oyster fork so that she might search for the pearl.

  There! It was in the interior fold closest to the back of the shell hinge. She moved it forward with her fork, the creature seemingly trying to suck it back into its crevice.

  Clara plucked it out and gazed at it, holding the fat, pea-sized gem above her face, both men looking at it critically. She studied it; the size was perfect with the classic baroque “pinch” just off center. This field was cultivated for a perfect cream color and size, but, as with any organic thing, this oyster was not cooperating by yielding that butter color with a hint of pink. Clara brought the pearl down beside her and raised her eyebrows at the brothers.

  “Pink,” Sydney said.

  “Aye, it be pink, Princess,” Russel agreed.

  She nodded. The Queen would wish the crop to yield that which was commanded but Clara knew that these results could be tipped. Perhaps it was the item placed that caused it. She asked the brothers.

  “Glass, Princess, we use it always. It is what the Guardian's instructed for uniformity,” Sydney said.

  It was confounding, Clara couldn't explain the color.

  “It is not overly pink,” Sydney said.

  “Just a sheen, is all,” Russel said.

  “She will not like it,” Clara said, stomach becoming tight thinking about the Queen's displeasure.

  No one asked who She was.

  The remainder of the day was spent thus. Each field which yielded different size and colored pearls was checked, all but the pink were in order. Each field represented different colors at different levels of maturation, only the first field had a mysterious color result.