The Scarlet Dragon (The Witching World Book 5)

by Lucia Ashta

  More silence passed without marking time. Outside, there was only darkness, and darkness didn’t keep time. Eventually, when Anna reappeared in the doorway, looking as worn as we did, Grand-mère said, “I think it’s time for us to retire. Or else we’ll fall asleep here, right where we sit. There’ll be time to discuss our options tomorrow.”

  “Yes, you’re right, dear Ariadne. Of course you’re right,” Mordecai said, garnering surprised looks from Brave and me. Anna hid hers with the practice of a servant who’d lived in this house since she was a child. She’d seen more bizarre things in her time here than the arrival of our hodgepodge company, coming down the roof instead of on one of the thirty-three horses that arrived with Brave.

  Mordecai stood, suppressing his creakiness, and looked to Sylvia and Marcelo.

  “Can he sleep with me?” I asked, and no one said a word while they waited for Mordecai’s reply. A maiden never slept with her fiancé before their wedding night, at least not if she intended on preserving the integrity of her reputation.

  Mordecai looked to me, then to Marcelo, and then to Grand-mère. My elders looked burdened by those loads that were too great to spread out among their many combined years.

  “I don’t see what the harm would be in this case. It’s not as if they could do anything inappropriate.” Grand-mère smiled at me with the kindness I remembered from my childhood. “And perhaps her love would help him.”

  I nodded. “I think it will.”

  Mordecai stroked his beard, running his hand along its length all the way down to his chest. “It might. Very well then, child. Marcelo can sleep with you. Sylvia will sleep with me.” He flicked a mischievous glance toward Grand-mère, but either she didn’t notice it, or she pretended she didn’t.

  “I’ll stay down here.” The pygmy owl’s voice squeaked out from the windowsill. It was the first time he’d spoken since we arrived at the castle. “I’ll keep watch, just in case.”

  I gulped visibly. I’d presumed us safe here. It seemed impossible to consider us vulnerable with the seemingly impenetrable defenses of Bundry Castle.

  “That will be good, Sir Lancelot. We’ll rest easier knowing you’re on guard. Merci,” Grand-mère said, and I swallowed again, too tired to overly worry about the reasons for Sir Lancelot’s watch over the castle’s approach.

  “De rien, Lady Ariadne,” said Sir Lancelot, in impeccable pygmy owl French.

  “Please show us the way, Anna,” Grand-mère said, falling into stride behind the petite servant and the circle of light her candlestick threw, leading the way out of the parlor, toward the main spiraling staircase.

  Several other servants, whose names I didn’t yet know, followed, each with a candelabra. “This way, Milady,” a girl said to me, and Mordecai, Marcelo, Gertrude, Sylvia, and I followed. If she or any of the other servants were unnerved to see bodies hovering up the stairs with us, they didn’t let on.

  When we arrived at the yellow room I’d slept in before, Mordecai hovered Marcelo over to the bed next to where I would sleep. Then I left any curious thoughts outside, bid them goodnight, and closed the door to them. By the time my head finally hit the pillow, I was ready to descend into the place of no thoughts at all.

  Chapter 17

  I woke suddenly from vivid dreams. Yet once I stirred, I couldn’t remember what I’d been dreaming. All that remained was the hammering of my heart and a powerful impression that my dreams had been important.

  I sighed. Whatever message my dreams had tried to deliver was elusive.

  I closed my eyes again. My body was tired. The bed was comfortable as a bed could only be after long horseback rides and perilous encounters. I turned on my side, content that there was nowhere I needed to be just then, and I bumped into something. My eyelids flew open, a scream at the ready.

  With my heart still hammering, I stared at the ashen face of my beloved. I’d forgotten entirely that Marcelo was in bed with me.

  Never before had I had the opportunity to stare at his face with impunity. Whenever we were together, a tingling excitement of the unknown interfered with unencumbered scrutiny. I hadn’t yet been able to lose myself in him with the ease that comes from knowing someone for a long time. I’d had flashes where my developing witch’s sense revealed things about him and his past that might otherwise take decades of togetherness to learn. But that was different.

  His scent was still new each time I smelled it. The features of his face surprised me when I studied each one individually. His expressions delighted me as if it were the first time I saw each one, particularly when they were jovial and playful, those that he kept mostly hidden.

  My gaze traveled the length of his profile, too still, too unmoving to contain life. In a panic, I looked to his chest. I waited. I breathed out only once I saw its rise. My shoulders unclenched when his chest fell.

  His raven black hair was as unkempt as I’d ever seen it, even though he wasn’t mussing it in his characteristic expression of stress, when he ran his fingers through his hair absently. His forehead was smooth, his brows as dark as his hair, and his nose straight. Thick, black eyelashes rested on his cheek placidly, and I wished harder than I remembered wishing anything before that they would move from what looked like a peaceful final resting place.

  My gaze trailed over cheeks and an upper lip dotted with dark stubble, making his already pale face appear even more drawn. Then I landed on his lips, full with the memory of our last kiss. They were the one thing on his face, which seemed to hold life—they held the promise of our future life together.

  I rose onto one elbow, my body’s requests for further rest already forgotten. I lit the candle on the bedside table so I could see him better; the light that filtered in through the closed blinds was minimal. I stared at him for a long time, for so long that I couldn’t resist a kiss.

  I didn’t think he’d feel it. The kiss was for me, not for him. It was for all the anguish my parents had caused me when they promised me in marriage to Samuel, a boy I didn’t know but grew to like, and then replaced him with his brother, Winston, ignoring all rumors of his cruelty. My obligatory engagement to Winston brought on the desolation and fever that almost killed me. It was also what led Father to such desperation to save me—and my value as a pawn in my parents’ strategy of social advancement—that he invited Marcelo into my life.

  Of course, Father never imagined that Marcelo would be the catalyst for my metamorphosis, nor could any of us. If Father, or Mother, had known what would happen when he invited Marcelo to save me with any methods at his disposal, he would have probably let me die—not the way he believed me dead now, but for real. Undoubtedly, my parents would choose a dead daughter over one that was a witch.

  This stolen kiss of hope and dreams would be for all of us daughters that were subjugated to the cruel circumstances that our gender dictated, for all of us that were forced to marry men we didn’t know, didn’t like, or worse, detested. This kiss was for Gertrude, whom my parents forced to marry Count Washur. It was for Marcelo’s sister, Clarissa, who was also forced to marry Count Washur, and who died because of him. It was for every girl that surrendered the dreams of her heart to fulfill a duty and obligation that should have been a crime.

  I understood then, perhaps for the first time, that it was a sin to violate the wishes of the heart. The heart spoke to us when we listened, and it guided us as true as any compass if we were wiling to follow the path it laid out for us, often well before our births.

  I bent over to meet my lips to those of my beloved, to those full lips I wished with all my might would once more smile. I pressed my lips against his gently, feeling flesh against flesh, and I held them there, trying to allow this kiss to fill the emptiness in my heart that I couldn’t help. Marcelo wasn’t dead, but neither was he alive. Right then, he was dead to my affection.

  “I love you,” I whispered against his lips, testing the still-unfamiliar words. Then I turned away from him entirely and collapsed onto the bed. Sobs swelle
d from a deep place, and impending loss wracked every bit of life within me.

  I curled into a ball, and pulled my nightgown down over my knees, trapping myself in the compressed position. I lay on my side, arms clasped across my chest, too tightly.

  I hadn’t expected the emotions that swelled within me like those vicious waves you can do nothing about but watch and hope they don’t break you when they break. And now the wave of grief tore at me with all the ferocity of the most violent of sea storms. I gasped for air, unsure whether I could survive it. Perhaps I would drown.

  Whatever strength I thought I possessed was nowhere I could find, and even in those moments, I wondered between futile gasps for air and for relief, where this savage agony had come from? I thought I was stronger than this. I thought I could survive anything after what I’d survived already. But then an even bigger wave crashed and wiped all rationality away. Perhaps it would wash up on a faraway beach somewhere. Wherever it ended up, it wouldn’t be within reach.

  I wept, all alone in the world, even though I lay next to the man I wanted to love for the rest of my life, and even though my sister and grandmother were also somewhere in the house. How strange it was that I could feel so alone when I wasn’t. We come into this world alone, and we leave it alone, and the time in between, when we experience the company of others, just distracts from this inevitable reality.

  Anguish ripped at the seams of my nightgown. And then, just like the unpredictable calm that rushed in after even the most terrible of storms, I could feel it upon the horizon, moving in. It would arrive, if only I could survive until it arrived.

  I breathed deeply, and calm seemed to come faster. And in that burgeoning calm I remembered that this wasn’t the first time that I’d experienced this overwhelming anguish, only to have it pass, replaced with a strength even greater than the one I’d possessed before the outburst of weakness.

  But no, grief was not weakness. Not necessarily. There was power in recognizing the emotions that coursed through us. There was power in honoring them. But as crucial as giving them importance was realizing that they weren’t the most important thing. Emotions coursed through us; they weren’t us.

  We were the survivors. We were the product of the lessons we learned from our emotions, and the consequent strength they left behind, when we gathered the resolve to harvest what came from superseding challenge.

  My breathing settled now without my intent. The storm was passing. The sun was coming out, beaming its light from behind thick, gray clouds.

  I could tell. The world was moments away from looking brighter. I was about to know more of my power.

  As if in response, the flame of the candle at my bedside flickered and subsequently grew. It reached toward the ceiling, an impossibly high crown for such a small wick.

  I wiped the tears and the blur from my eyes so I could better admire the fire’s beauty. I knew my magic was intertwined with the five elements. I knew the fire was about to do something extraordinary. The five-petal knot at my heart was already jumping in my chest, clearing away any remnants of grief, speaking to me of how extraordinarily alive I was.

  While I was in this body, while my heart beat, I had the responsibility to discover myself. I had to become the witch I was meant to become. I would have to learn to trust the process of life—and, consequently, of death.

  I breathed fully, finding a way through the congestion brought on by my tears. I focused on the flame, reaching, climbing, yearning to know more of itself. It was almost near enough to touch the ceiling’s sunshiny yellow.

  A sudden sound rang out behind me that seemed to have borrowed the life from the flame, which dropped immediately to its normal level. Where it had possessed so much vigor a second before, now it waited, just as I waited.

  Then it came again: a rustling sound, a head swiveling against the linen of a pillow next to mine.

  My body tore apart its compression. It stretched and flung itself like a star on its way to the impossible wish of love. I furled myself up and laughed.

  I sat and laughed again—harder, louder. I called out. But this wasn’t the call that would bring everyone running in a panic, concerned for my safety. My call would bring the others in the castle running for certain, but they wouldn’t regret it. Nor would I. Not ever.

  I fell across Marcelo’s chest, making unintelligible sounds of relief. My head rose and fell against his chest. He was spectacularly alive, and awake.

  Chapter 18

  As if it were death and not sleep that had claimed Marcelo, and we were all witnesses to the miracle of resurrection, no one wanted to leave my chambers.

  When I first called out, I gave no thought to what it would be like once everyone heeded my call. But by now I’d grown severely uncomfortable in my thin nightgown. I’d never noticed it to be as translucent as it was once Grand-mère threw open the shutters. I sat in bed next to Marcelo and pulled the covers up to my chin, aware for the first time how young and virile Brave was.

  His older counterpart didn’t currently possess his vigor. Marcelo’s eyes were open, but he hadn’t been able to sit. He tried to sit again and groaned in frustration, a man unaccustomed to his body’s refusals.

  “No, son. Don’t push yourself. Not yet.” Mordecai rose from the chair he’d pulled up to the bed to place a steadying hand on Marcelo’s shoulder.

  Marcelo closed his eyes—was it to block out his limitations or all the sets of peering eyes that leaned over the bed? Ordinarily, I might have reached over to smooth the hair from his forehead or to whisper encouragement. Now I sat rigidly, paralyzed by the scrutiny of those I otherwise considered friends. It was one thing to sleep in the bed with my unconscious and nearly dead fiancé. It was quite another to be discovered in bed with Marcelo, awake, in the harsh light of morning.

  Disregarding the steadying hand, strong despite its spots of age, upon his shoulder, Marcelo managed to drag himself upright. He slumped uncomfortably against the headboard, winded from the effort.

  Mordecai sighed at Marcelo’s obstinacy, but then helped him sit better. Grand-mère rounded the bed with a pillow from the settee and stuffed it behind the small of his back. “There. That’s better,” she said, but her eyes were wary and trailed Marcelo’s broken body everywhere damage was visible. “I’m Clara’s grandmother,” she said in response to his appraising look. He smiled and nodded. Of course she was. She looked so much like me.

  Marcelo sat with eyes closed, then open. Meanwhile, we waited, not missing a move of the specimen of our scrutiny. My lips tingled with the evidence of my kiss, suddenly feeling like they kept a secret they hadn’t meant to keep. I blushed and looked away from everyone, to the open doorway, to the only place I could feign to be safe from questions. I hoped no one would notice, yet I thought everyone did.

  My cheeks were warm. I told myself I had nothing to hide and nothing to be embarrassed about. It didn’t make a difference. Eyes swiveled between our modern day Lazarus and me, the word “unwed” spelled out in red blotches across my cheeks. How silly of me, I thought. Again, my rational thoughts didn’t change a thing.

  I only forgot my silliness when Marcelo tried to speak. His voice caught in his throat in a thwarted rasp. Brave poured water from the pitcher on the side bar and brought the glass to his uncle’s lips. We were all surprised at Brave’s attentiveness. Marcelo, however, the only one that hadn’t observed his nephew’s progress, was not. He swallowed loudly. “Thank you,” he said, in a voice that was a shadow of its usual self, but that worked.

  Uncle and nephew exchanged a meaningful look. It drew out into time and openness and, though neither Brave nor Marcelo spoke a word, the rest of us saw what they said with their silence. Any suspicions that remained of Brave’s loyalty were erased, even those that he had of himself. He became true family then. He’d always been Marcelo’s nephew tied to him by blood. In that one exchange, he also became a nephew of the heart.

  “Once I regain my strength, I’ll unbind your magic.” Alrea
dy, Marcelo’s voice was less hoarse.

  Brave nodded. “I’ve changed my name.” He puffed out his chest, proud to have severed his father’s bindings. He was free at last from a name that embodied Count Washur’s hate and control. No one there would ever speak it again.

  Marcelo nodded. “What should I call you then?”

  “Brave.” His skin flushed beneath the collar of his shirt.

  Marcelo nodded again. “It’s a good name.”

  The men stared at each other for another long minute, and then it was done. In those looks and scattered words, uncle and nephew healed a young lifetime of pain and manipulation. Brave had become the son of a kind woman, who’d been victim to cruelty and murder, instead of the son of a father he was better off without.

  Tension I hadn’t realized I was holding fled my shoulders. It was as if the room itself breathed out, relaxed after viewing the resolution of a situation that could have gone another way. In the end, Brave had more of Clarissa in him than his father, even though she died before he could meet her. She was the vessel that gave him life. And light was always stronger than dark.

  Marcelo swept his eyes across the remaining faces in the room, all except mine. “It’s most blessed to have you back with us, Count Bundry,” the little owl said. Marcelo nodded another time in the universally accepted gesture of efficient appreciation, conserving what little strength he had.

  Mathieu stood farthest from the bed. When Marcelo’s curiosity landed on him, Grand-mère said, “That’s my dear companion, Mathieu. He came from Acquaine with me. He was the one to hear Sylvia’s rallying call for help in her travels from Irele to here.” Again, a nod of understanding from Marcelo. However, I realized here was something I hadn’t known. Was that how Grand-mère found us at Washur? Was that what Mordecai asked of Sylvia on her journey to Bundry, that she find help? Or did Mordecai know of Grand-mère and ask Sylvia to get word to her directly?