Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

She looked for a long moment as if she wanted to say something harsh, but then her expression turned magnanimous. “I forgive you.”

  She took him by the arm and they began walking away from the inn, out into an abandoned field.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” Yarrow said, hoping to turn the conversation in a more pleasant direction. Bray took a long draught of wine, right from the bottle, and handed it to him. He took a swig too and thought of how sharing a drink was not unlike sharing a kiss…in principle. The wine was dry, tart; the flavor clung to his tongue and teeth.

  “Yes. I’ve never seen so many stars,” she replied. “Though the flatness in these parts makes me uncomfortable. It feels safer with a mountain at your back.”

  Yarrow chuckled. “Are you expecting an invasion?”

  She smiled, and towed him further into the night.

  They walked on quietly, passing the bottle of wine back and forth as they strolled, until Bray announced, “This looks like a good spot,” and sat down on the grass. She patted the ground next to her, and Yarrow followed her example. The dampness immediately sent a chill up his spine.

  “If you lay down like this,” she lay completely flat on her back, “it’s like you can see the universe just the way the world would, if it had eyes.”

  Yarrow lay back, too. The combination of the vast sky above him, the wine, and the earthy, sweet smell of the girl beside him made his head spin.

  “I used to do this all the time, back home,” she said, softly.

  “How did your parents die?” he asked, then bit his tongue in self-reproach. Idiot!

  He heard her turn toward him, so he let his head fall to the side and met her gaze.

  “My mother died of influenza when I was young. My father in a mining accident, two years ago.”

  “Were you in an orphanage, then?” he asked.

  “No. I was with my uncle.” She turned her head back toward the sky; Yarrow could see the reflection of the stars in her eyes. A long pause followed. “He is not a nice man,” she said, simply.

  “Did he hurt you?” Yarrow whispered.

  She looked back at him, her eyes full of tears, and gave a silent nod. She wiped angrily at the wetness on her cheeks. Yarrow reached for her hand and held it tightly, hoping to impart some comfort with his touch, as he could think of none to supply with words.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with a sniff. “Let’s speak of happier things. Tell me about your family.”

  Yarrow repositioned himself in the grass, inching closer to her. “Well, we’re the butt of every town joke,” he said and laughed. “The Lamharts, and their endless supply of scruffy children. We run the general store in town, so we’ve got a steady income, but not near enough to keep such a large batch of kids presentable.”

  “You’ll miss them, won’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I will. I do. But they won’t really miss me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It is.” He brushed his hair from his brow. “They’ll talk about me—their son, the Chisanta. But they won’t miss me, not really. I’m just one of many.”

  And then, because he feared he sounded spoiled and selfish after Bray’s own story, he added, “I know it sounds petty…”

  “No. It doesn’t,” she said, sincerity dripping from her lips, and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  Bray sat up and crossed her legs. “Let’s play a game.”

  “What kind of game?”

  “The question game. You can ask me any question and I promise to answer honestly. And then I ask you a question.”

  Yarrow sat too, facing her. “That doesn’t sound very much like a game. How do you win?”

  “Don’t spoil my fun, Yarrow Lamhart.” She took a gulp of wine and handed the bottle back to him. “Ask me a question.”

  “Alright…” Yarrow searched his mind for an interesting query, but could think of none. “What is your middle name?”

  Bray groaned. “Of course you would ask that! It’s terribly embarrassing.”

  “Answer honestly, now,” Yarrow said, and shook his finger like a school marm. “It’s your game and your rules.”

  “Very well.” She took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive into a lake. “It’s Brentis.”

  “Brentis?” Yarrow asked and laughed so hard his gut ached. “Bray Brentis Marron?”

  “You shouldn’t laugh. It’s rude. Brentis was my grandfather’s name.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, what kind of name is Yarrow? I never heard it before.”

  Yarrow tried to stop laughing. His face felt as warm as a mid-summer sunburn. “True enough. I don’t think it is a name, really.”

  “What is it then?” Bray asked.

  “Is that your question?” Yarrow passed the bottle. “Because I’m not about to answer un-game-related questions.”

  Bray chuckled and nodded. “Yes, that’s my question.”

  He plucked a shoot of grass from the ground and began tying it in rings. “Yarrow is a kind of weed, actually.”

  Bray sucked her lips in to hold the laugh that, by her own admonishment, would have been rude. “Why would someone name their son after a weed?”

  “It saved my ma’s life when she was pregnant with me, so she developed a fondness for the stuff. She stepped in a bear trap, and my da used it to slow the bleeding while he got help. The doctor said she might have bled out without it.”

  Bray gaped at him with slightly unfocused eyes. “What does it look like…yarrow?”

  “Oh, it grows everywhere,” Yarrow said. “You’d recognize it.”

  Bray placed her hand on the grass and slowly pushed herself up onto unsteady feet. “Show me.”

  “What, now?”

  “Certainly. What if I’m ever bleeding in the woods?”

  Yarrow stood and the night spun before his eyes. Bray grabbed his shoulder to help him stay upright. He took hold of her hand and they began to walk.

  “Let’s look over by those trees,” he suggested.

  “It’s your question now.”

  “Do you think your parents made it to the Spirits’ Home?”

  Bray leaned into him. “Yes. Well, I think so. They were good people. But I guess you never know, do you?”

  He nodded gravely and the wind rustled his hair.

  “It’s unfair, isn’t it?” Bray paused to pull her petticoat from a briar bush. “That being good isn’t always enough. That it should come down to luck, in the end.”

  “My da always does this toast,” Yarrow said, and raised the nearly empty wine bottle in the air. “May I be good when I can, may my sins be light when I can’t, may my spirit fly swiftly, and may the bastard next door die with me and keep the Spiritblighter busy.”

  Bray laughed. “Oh, Yarrow, that’s awful.”

  The light petals of a plant caught Yarrow’s eye. “Here!” he announced triumphantly and knelt down to pull up a cluster of small white flowers. “It’s the leaves you want if you’re bleeding.”

  He guided Bray’s fingers to the feather-shaped blades.

  “It’s pretty,” she said. “I think it’s really more of a flower than a weed.”

  “Well, as a man, I’m not sure that’s much better.”

  Bray smiled. “I suppose not.”

  She broke the budded portion of the plant off and tucked it into her hair.

  They began to walk back toward the inn, and not a moment too soon. The fuzziness in Yarrow’s head was making it increasingly difficult to stay upright.

  “It’s my turn,” she said.

  Yarrow’s eyelids were beginning to droop. “Question away,” he said, his voice slurred.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Of being Chisanta?”

  She nodded.

  Yarrow took hold of her hand again. “Yes.”

  “Me too,” she whispered.

  Bray woke to a sharp rap on the door. Mr. Paggle’s brisk voice called, “Up, up, up.”

  She groaned into her pillow.
Her mouth tasted foul, her saliva sticky; she swallowed several times as she rolled over and rubbed her eyes against the glaring morning sun. As she sat up and cast her legs over the edge of the bed, the room spun and the contents of her stomach roiled. Heavy footfalls sounded through the adjoining door. How was Yarrow faring? Better than herself, she hoped.

  When she could delay no longer, she rose and dressed, slowly. The cold water in the basin washed away the last of her sleepiness and raised gooseflesh on her arms. Her fingers, as if of their own accord, pulled her hair back into a bun, tugging at her scalp.

  Her father’s ghost sprung from her memory. “You’ve got hair like sunlight, girl, why restrain it? Your ma never did.”

  Bray sighed and let the copper locks tumble back around her shoulders. “Very well, Da.” She’d prefer it off her neck, but there was no arguing with spirits, imaginary or no.

  From the nightstand she snatched a long leather strap. It was tied into a necklace and bore two silver rings. She slipped it over her head and was comforted by the cold weight against her sternum. She then put on, again, her rather uncomely dress—out of fashion, too short, and shabby as it was. She assessed her appearance in the full-length mirror, taking in her peaked face, the dark shadows under her eyes. The sight was not bolstering. She shrugged. Nothing to be done.

  The sun streamed brightly through the common room windows, painting the space in a welcoming light. She hopped down the last flight of stairs and spotted her companions at a far table. They each nursed a steaming cup of tea.

  “I’d love one of those,” she said, as she sunk down beside Yarrow. Mr. Paggle obligingly poured her a mug and slid it across the table. The sound of the ceramic scraping against the grain in the wood made her head pound worse.

  She shot a glance at Yarrow, his face pale and eyes bleary. He met her gaze and hooked his mouth into a conspiratorial smile. His hair was in disarray; his jacket hung on the back of his chair, revealing a frayed charcoal waistcoat and a cream-colored shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  Mr. Paggle waved over the owner and began ordering them breakfast. “Eggs, sausage, hash browns…” The mere thought made Bray’s stomach roll over.

  “Do you feel as wretched as I do?” Yarrow whispered, taking advantage of their chaperone’s distraction.

  “Only if you feel very wretched indeed.”

  He laughed, then winced. “The tea is helping…a bit.”

  Bray followed his example and took a long draught.

  “Once we’ve breakfasted, we must be off in a hurry,” Mr. Paggle informed them. “I have a third charge to pick up by midday.”

  When the piping tray arrived, Bray only nibbled on toast at first. But the more food she ate, the better she began to feel. So in the end, she ate a full plate of eggs and sausage, drank two more cups of tea, and by the time they boarded the barouche, she felt nearly herself again.

  “Ho!” Bray heard Mr. Paggle call to the horses. The carriage slowed.

  “Guess we’re about to get company,” Yarrow said, leaning across her to look out the window. Bray peeked through the curtains as well. They had parked before a well-appointed manor, formidable in its size and opulence. It bore an impressive gray stone face and the grounds were the finest she had ever seen, complete with a lake and gazebo. Waiting on the immaculately manicured lawn stood a well-dressed boy. He hugged a set of well-dressed parents and shook hands with a butler.

  Bray frowned at him. The man who owned the mines in Mountsend lived in a home like this one. He, who set the unreasonable working hours and disregarded the safety of his men, yet paid them a pittance. He, who had held a lavish party on the very day of her father’s funeral, and the funerals of eight other men who’d lost their lives in his mine.

  “Appears the average social standing of our party is about to rise,” Bray said, her tone bitter.

  “It would seem so,” Yarrow said.

  The two of them watched as Mr. Paggle descended and shook hands with the adults. Servants carried four great trunks out to the barouche and strapped them to the roof. The boy walked toward the carriage, his step oddly sprightly given the circumstances. Yarrow and Bray jumped back to their seats, not wanting to be caught spying.

  The door swung open and in stepped a black-haired, black-eyed boy clutching a large, leather-bound tome. He would have been good looking if it weren’t for the haughty set of his expression.

  He offered them a wicked smile and a shrewd examination. “Arlow Bowlerham, pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking Yarrow’s hand and bowing to Bray. They each offered their own names in turn. The carriage leapt into motion, but their new companion did not spare a glance for the window. Instead, Arlow Bowlerham leaned back in the seat across from them, legs crossed at the ankle, and looked very much at his ease.

  “So, from whence do you hail, Yarrow Lamhart?” he asked, his voice thick with the drawling, nasal accent of the wealthy.

  “Glans Heath.”

  “And what sort of trade were your family in?” He hit the word ‘trade’ with no small degree of contempt; Bray clenched her teeth.

  The tendons in Yarrow’s neck stood out slightly as he said, “We run a general store.”

  Arlow belted a hearty laugh. “A shop-boy!” He shook his head. “Well I never…”

  Bray’s ire rose, her opinion of him formed before his home had even receded from view. She did not like this boy—could they not toss him out on his butt and ride on?

  “And how about you, mistress?” he asked her, eyeing the sad shape of her dress with a smirk.

  She refused to play along with his game. She crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and gave him a level look, but remained silent.

  Some of Arlow’s pomp left him at that. “I confess,” he went on, “I’ve not spent much time with common folk. I don’t know what sorts of things your kind talk about.”

  Bray pulled back her hair and gestured to the mark on her neck—the same one she saw clearly below his own ear. “We are not common.”

  “Well no, not anymore, of course,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  Arlow raised his hands and tried to placate her with a wide, charming smile. “Now, I didn’t mean any offense. Honestly. Could we begin again?”

  Yarrow nodded and shrugged, but Bray was not feeling terribly forgiving. Perhaps if her head did not still ache she would have been more tolerant, but probably not.

  She sat up straighter. “I’ve not spent much time with arrogant little prats. I don’t know what sorts of things your kind talk about.”

  Arlow flushed and the smile fell from his face.

  He looked at Yarrow, as if expecting commiseration. “Tetchy, isn’t she?”

  Bray was sorely tempted to leap across the carriage and sock Arlow Bowlerham in his smug little mouth.

  Yarrow put a hand on her shoulder—had he somehow read her intent? “This is going to be a very long trip if we don’t work to get along better.”

  This was a rather diplomatic answer; Arlow tipped an imaginary hat to him. Bray knocked his hand from her shoulder and offered him a cold look. She’d wanted him to take her part, not play the peacekeeper. Heat crept up her face and she turned toward the window, feeling betrayed. A small, more reasonable voice in the back of her head whispered that she might be overreacting. She told that voice to shut it.

  They stopped for lunch an hour after acquiring Arlow Bowlerham. Bray longed to leave the carriage, where tension had been steadily building. And as tension in a small space is far worse than tension in an open one, Bray breathed a sigh of relief as her feet found grass.

  “We’ll give the horses a rest here for a while,” Mr. Paggle told them, as he distributed cheese and bread. They had halted in a wide field of rolling hills, and though the sun had temporarily hidden behind a tuft of cloud, the day was warm and bright.

  “We still have one more to pick up, don’t we?” Yarrow asked.

  “Yes, indeed. We’ll be fetching the last lad in a few hours
. We’ll stay at the Platstone Inn tonight.” Here, Mr. Paggle’s expression grew dreamy. “A fine inn, is the Platstone…best shepherd’s pie you’re like to meet with.”

  “And we’ll be arriving at the Temple tomorrow, then?” Yarrow pressed.

  “Mmm,” the coachman agreed. “By midday at the latest.”

  Mr. Paggle retreated from their little picnic to tend to the horses, leaving the three youths in an awkward silence.

  “I hope this chap is right. I detest long journeys,” Arlow said at last. Bray rolled her eyes and bit a chunk of bread.

  Arlow didn’t seem to require assistance carrying a conversation, however, as he went on to say, “Drivers so often misjudge the matter, it’s a wonder anyone can estimate an arrival time at all.”

  Odious boy! Bray pocketed her lunch, stood, and strode away without comment. In the distance, a field of wildflowers danced in the breeze, a dense patch of purple and white amidst the green. She picked her way towards it without a backwards glance.

  She had not taken many strides before she heard someone jog up behind her. Yarrow reached her side and matched her pace, out of breath. She said nothing to him.

  “Are you angry with me?” he asked.

  Yes. “No.”

  “Really?” he asked. “Because you seem mad.”

  Bray bent and plucked several flowers with violent, rapid jerks of her hand. “Well, I’m not.”

  “Are you angry with the flowers, then?” he asked, as she yanked an offending bud from the earth.

  “No.”

  Yarrow sighed. “I’m sorry, I was just hoping to…kind of…smooth the situation over. I thought it would be better.”

  Bray strode past him and began uprooting miniature daisies for her bouquet.

  “I promise, the next time someone is rude to you, I’ll punch them in the nose.”

  Bray, despite her resolution to ignore him, snorted. She could not imagine Yarrow, as placid and kindly as he was, punching anyone.

  He crouched down just opposite her and reached for her hand. “I’ll go hit him right now, if you’d like.”

  She allowed him to squeeze her fingers apologetically and the anger drained from her in a rush. She let out a gust of air. “No…it’s not important.”