by Lily Velez
Copyright © 2016 by Lily Velez
www.lilyvelezbooks.com
House of Capet Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Artwork by Steph’s Cover Design, www.stephscoverdesign.com
Formatting by Polgarus Studio, www.polgarusstudio.com
Poem excerpt taken from Thomas Carew’s “Song: Ask Me No More Where Jove Bestows”
ISBN 13: 978-0692699300
ISBN 10: 0692699309
Dedicated to a time long past
but a love never gone
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
The trouble began on a sweltering spring day.
Newly-bloomed perennials in the whisper-quiet town of Avignon, France perfumed the air with a sweet, sugary fragrance from the city walls to the waters of the Rhône, and in the wake of a cruel, bygone winter, the smell was intoxicating to the townspeople, if not altogether bewitching.
It was the first day of the return of the open-air markets, and the swell of bodies pressed within the narrow aisles hummed with excitement. Liberated from the prisons of their homes, people laughed, they embraced one another, they flitted from vendor to vendor hungrily like hummingbirds trying to find the right flower to sink their beaks into. They made for a fast and ever-changing current of shoppers as they perused the rainbow-colored spread of produce, meats, and other goods before them.
Noah Capet found himself in the company of two of his four sisters that day. They’d ridden into town, as they did weekly, to trade. Their currency: newly churned butter, olive oil soaps, candles made from beeswax and bayberries, and their mother’s renowned fruit jams. It had proven a successful morning for them. By noon, they were richer in fabrics, sugar, ground spices, and feed.
As Noah loaded these items onto their dray-cart, his thoughts fell to his own personal acquisitions. Namely: three baguettes, and then a few dozen iron rods, which clanked together like loose bones as he piled them onto the cart’s bed. He’d acquired them from the local blacksmith, the very man under whom he’d apprenticed for many years.
As a small, silent child, Noah would watch the sweating blacksmith hammer away for hours, in awe of the man’s magic. What else but magic could explain the way he transformed simple metals into pans and knives and candle stands and farming tools? Eventually, the blacksmith had invited Noah in, no doubt figuring it would serve him better to put the boy to use than leave him staring on, dumbstruck.
Noah learned to forge a great many things with simple tools, an anvil, and a fire, but what he most enjoyed creating were horseshoes. He couldn’t quite place why. It was something about achieving the perfect bend in the shoe, a slope as soft as a hill but durable enough to withstand wear.
He became so adept at it over the years that the blacksmith in time relegated all horseshoe commissions to him. It only followed that he should take up farriery as well. It didn’t suit for just anyone to nail his shoes to waiting hooves. Better he do it himself.
Presently, he wanted nothing more than to return home and work with the new rods at once. The horse that had brought his sisters and him into town, a recent purchase, stood in dire need of shoes. Noah had observed it the past days with growing distress, noting the way the animal frequently shifted its weight, as if resting its feet in turn. Upon inspecting its hooves more closely, Noah attributed the animal’s discomfort to bruised soles. A shame its previous owners hadn’t taken better care (an outrage, really, if Noah uncensored his feelings on the matter), but it was fortunately an easy fix.
It was while he considered this that he heard the giggling he’d come to associate with trouble.
With the back of one hand, he wiped away a thick trickle of sweat that had taken to his temple and followed his sisters’ line of sight, but all he saw across the way was the closing door of a storefront and crates of books all about its walkway.
His sister Camilla caught sight of his gaze. She straightened, attempting to compose herself, though her pressed lips wobbled as if another flood of giggles threatened to emerge.
“Someone’s opened a bookshop,” she said. “We should introduce ourselves, don’t you think? You know how Mamá adores books.”
It was true. Their mother was forever captive to a riveting tale. It was part of the reason she’d fallen in love with their father, who knew how to tell a good story. If Camilla’s behavior was any indication, however, her intentions had little to do with hospitality and everything to do with the prospect of marriage. She desperately desired a husband.
At some point between her fifteenth and sixteenth birthday, young men had begun to take notice of her. The burgeoning attention only encouraged her appetite for matrimony all the more. She’d smile coquettishly at those young men, twirl a lock of hair around her finger, bite into her bottom lip—all to the horror and vexation of their poor mother.
“It’s not at all proper for a young woman to act in such a manner,” the woman would say, wondering no doubt where she’d veered wrong in Camilla’s upbringing.
But sure enough, days later, Camilla would revert to her daring ways, flirting with whoever would pay her mind.
“She’ll end up carrying some fool’s child if she’s not careful enough,” Noah’s older brothers always said, and Noah was liable to agree.
He squinted against the sun and thought about the journey home to their sleepy farm beyond the walls of Avignon. His shirt stuck to his back between his shoulder blades, and his golden hair grew damp with sweat. If recent temperatures were the omens to go by, then it was bound to be a scalding summer.
Today, the sky was cloudless, and the sun would therefore feel like fire upon them as they crossed the open landscapes of the countryside. The mere thought was agony, but the sooner they returned, the sooner he could drink from a pail of cool water before pouring the rest over his head.
“The cart is ready,” he said then, eager to be on their way.
“There’s no reason why we couldn’t introduce ourselves,” Camilla pressed. She folded her arms, remaining in place.
Noah said nothing. Surely she wasn’t serious.
Seeing that he was unmoved, she offered a compromise. Noah would enter the bookshop first and make small conversation with its owner. Then Camilla and their sister Genevieve would enter shortly afterward to fetch Noah. Realizing they’d interrupted his friendly dialogue, they would immediately beg his pardon, at which point Noah would wave off the apology and invite them over to meet his new acquaintance. The entire ordeal would take only minutes, and then they could be on their way.
Noah refused.
“You’re impossible. We’ve com
pleted our tasks for today, haven’t we? You couldn’t possibly be in a hurry to clean out horse stalls for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Camilla,” Genevieve gently chided. She was the eldest of her siblings, which therefore made her the peacekeeper among them. Despite her mild nature, or perhaps because of it, the others typically heeded her words. She had married young and had been widowed young, and her gentle eyes bespoke both a strength and maturity that necessitated respect.
“It’s true,” Camilla went on. “Work, work, work. It’s all the boys care about. Would it really be such a chore to simply show kindness to a newcomer?”
Noah certainly thought so. He turned to the horse, attending to its harness, the leather warm under his touch. He’d seen his brothers execute this trick before: ignore Camilla until she yielded to their obstinacy. Perhaps it would work for him.
“Are you even listening to me?”
He continued adjusting the harness.
“Of course not. You hardly listen to anyone.”
He continued.
“You don’t care about my happiness. None of you boys do.”
He continued.
“Just wait until I tell Mamá how impossibly rude you were. What would she think? It would break her heart, I’m sure. She’ll take you to task over it. You’ll be the subject of conversation as we sup. Noah this and Noah that. You’ll see.”
A quiet dread crept into his limbs. He could picture it already, the way his mother would fuss. Hers was a charitable soul that could know no rest if she hadn’t warmly received a newcomer to Avignon. She served as the head of her very own one-woman welcoming committee, baking pies, gifting flowers, offering recommendations and advice. Love thy neighbor, she’d sing. She’d wonder why Noah had acted otherwise.
His hands slowed on the harness. Further, he’d end up as the center of attention, which Camilla knew he despised. There would be no way around it unless someone thought to speak of other things, and until then, Noah would suffer under the scrutiny of his actions. It would be enough to make him want to melt straight through to the floor.
He glanced longingly to the iron rods. All he’d wanted was a swift homecoming. He thought to protest further, but then he knew Camilla would only wail about the issue the entire trip home, and as it was a long trip, he could very well go deaf by the time they reached their destination. Deaf and mad.
Why did she have to be such a pest? He suddenly envied his brothers, who were working in the fields today. He would’ve rather suffered such breed of labor as that than endure an insufferable day with Camilla. He pushed a breath from his nose and moved away from the horse, brushing past his sisters. He knew Camilla was beaming at her victory without even looking at her, and it only irritated him further.
He waited for traffic to pass: a horse-drawn cart carrying kettles of milk and a man shepherding two brown cows and a goat, the bells around their necks jangling. A hoof print in the mud had pooled with dark water, and as Noah stepped over it, he thought about the horse he still needed to shoe and the sunlight he was losing.
He slipped through the pale blue doors of the bookshop.
It was like entering another world.
It was dim inside. Threadbare potato sacks hung from nails above the windows, and the place smelled of wet wood. The cool air, however, was a welcome respite from the day’s heat. The damp spot on the back of Noah’s shirt chilled.
Crates of varying sizes and overflowing with books littered the floor in short towers like spoils from a recent conquest. The crate nearest him was overturned, cloth-bound tomes with golden names spilling out.
He ghosted down aisles formed by empty shelves that dwarfed him. As he did, his thoughts strayed to what he might say to this bookshop owner Camilla so wanted to meet.
He hadn’t been built for conversation. On the assembly line for proficiency with idle chatter, he’d presumably been passed over. He could add to a dialogue no more than a horse could. Though a horse could probably do better honestly.
Camilla knew this. All his family did. That she was willing to let Noah spearhead these introductions only spoke to her desperation for a husband.
What a nuisance.
It wasn’t too late to abandon this plan, though. He could always tell Camilla he’d spotted not a soul within the shop, which was not untrue, for as he arrived at a counter at the shop’s back, the space remained as hushed as ever. He wouldn’t call out “hello”, he decided. He would wait a few moments longer to appease his sister, and then he would leave.
It was at that moment that a pocket-sized volume resting upon the counter caught his eye. Its leathery face was spotted like an old banana, a wrinkle stretching across its width near the bottom. He delicately ran a fingertip across the serrated edges of its pages. How curious a thing.
“That’s a family heirloom,” a voice announced.
Noah’s heart shot up his throat. He jerked his hand back, twisting around to face the owner of the voice.
A young man his age emerged from an adjoining room, his figure filling the doorway, head nearly touching the top of the frame. He wore an easy smile on his face.
“Not my own family’s. Actually, the story is one of immense fascination. The book contains poems. One man’s reflections on life during his final months. The book was to serve as a gift to his loved ones upon his passing. A memorialization, if you will. Which is why he insisted the book be bound with his very skin. Have you ever heard of such a thing? The skin is flayed and tanned before use, but look. See? You can still make out the impressions of the pores.”
Noah couldn’t think of how he might possibly respond to so bizarre an account. He only wished he hadn’t touched the book.
“My name is Jeremie. Jeremie Perreault. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He extended a long, pale, slender hand to Noah.
Noah wiped a palm against the side of his trousers before taking it, noting the coolness of Jeremie’s skin, how it lacked a working man’s calluses. He lifted his gaze for the sake of politeness.
“My word,” Jeremie said, his voice a hush, “but your eyes…”
It was not an uncommon refrain. Indeed, it was the foremost thing people noticed about Noah: his eyes. Twin pools of incalculable depth—so pale a blue, they favored the look of glass, as if Noah had been fashioned from spare parts. If a man stood at a lake and could see all the way through to the bottom, he’d achieve a fair sense of what it was like to look into Noah’s eyes.
When Noah was a child, men and women would lose their words upon finding his gaze fixed upon them, momentarily stupefied, fastened into place as if a paralyzing venom slithered through their innards.
“Such eyes,” they would say, staring at him the way they might an aberration in a traveling sideshow.
Noah recalled moments when his eyes rattled even his own birth mother. She’d look up from skinning a rabbit for stew, waves of silvery hair plastered to her glistening forehead, and find Noah watching on from the table, inhaling the spicy scent of the broth boiling over the fire until his lungs were heavy with it. Unsettled, she’d send him outside to play or direct him to his father’s workshop or simply ask that he please not look at her in such a manner.
“As if you’re seeing right through to my soul.”
Even when he’d come to live with his adoptive family the Capets, even when he’d grown into himself, even at nearly eighteen years, his eyes were a permanent fixture that continued to unhinge others but a fixture of which he clearly couldn’t rid himself. So he learned to keep his eyes downcast. Better still when his hair was long enough to fall across his gaze.
As otherworldly as his eyes might’ve been, he was glad for them on most days. They proved to be a most effective deterrent. Like leprosy, they kept others at a distance, so if his silence didn’t discourage a townsperson’s attempt at conversation with him, then his eyes certainly did. A man or woman might make do with a sparsity of words, but they wouldn’t tolerate eyes that cut into their souls as i
f on the search for every last secret and sin.
Which is why it was so bewildering, so startling, surely a mockery or misunderstanding or miscreation of Noah’s hearing when Jeremie Perreault, still studying Noah’s eyes, their hands yet clasped, smiled broadly as if he’d discovered a rare treasure and said simply, “They’re absolutely remarkable.”
2
Some days later, on the Capet farm, Noah was shaving a horse’s hooves while his father rummaged through a weathered trunk of tools in hopes of unearthing a trowel. The man had just plucked the tool from the assortment of rusting metal when an all-t00-familiar giggle sang out from just outside the barn.
His father smiled. “Something seems to be amusing your sister.”
Noah couldn’t imagine what. A fair measure of the reason Camilla insisted on shadowing him and Genevieve to town was due to farm life “boring” her so. It was any wonder she managed to see her chores through each day with all the time she squandered fantasizing about one day leaving behind “this God-forsaken place.”
Noah’s father moved to the barn’s entryway to have a look. The way the double doors spread open gave the barn the appearance of a colossal creature with a hungry, gaping mouth. A whale perhaps, and the wooden beams stretching tall like trees into the cobwebbed, cavernous space above were the whale’s ribs. Noah had been swallowed whole.
It was still a better predicament than becoming entangled in Camilla’s ploys.
He remained in place. No one—especially not Camilla—would interrupt the day he’d planned for himself. A farming neighbor was delivering his entire fleet of working horses to Noah to be shod today—a total of more than half a dozen animals. Noah permitted himself very few luxuries, but the profit would be enough to purchase new farriery tools. The rest he’d present to his mother and father for them to do with as they saw appropriate.
“I wonder who that could be,” his father said then.
Noah sidled up to him, assuming it to be the neighbor in question, but the figure that approached the farm did so with only one horse—the one he rode. As the figure neared, Noah fastened a hand to his forehead, blocking out the blinding sunlight to catch a better look of this unannounced visitor.