by C. M. Lind
There was startled, amused laugh within, and her hand froze as she heard Jae’s voice. “Oh no, I believe I have been discovered!” he teased theatrically.
She pulled her hand back, immediately slathering her damp hair over the left side of her face. It even covered her eye, but she would never risk anyone seeing her scarred flesh. “I-I-I apologize!” was all she could muster.
He pulled the door the rest of the way open, backing up with it. Only his head poked out. He gave her a grin that Soli could only think of as wolfish, and she took a step back. “I must confess: I was watching you two out there.” He motioned for her to come inside. “I just returned with a drink to watch more, but it looks like the show is over,” he pouted.
“I hit you with the door,” said Soli stiffly, her hand still on her hair, holding it in place.
He waved her in again. “It is nothing, mistress. Just what I get for hiding.” He sounded like a child who had been caught by his teacher misbehaving. “I have learned my lesson!” he proclaimed with a wink.
She stepped inside. Her eyes looked him over. He did have a beverage in hand: a dark purple drink that smelled of pressed grapes and raspberries. He was wearing nothing but a loose, vermillion robe (so long it almost touched the floor) barely closed with a matching sash at his waist. His ivory chest sported fine lines of muscle, and he was without blemish.
Jae closed the door behind her, and, as he moved, the robe fluttered open, revealing his trim, lean thighs—the legs of an active man—and possibly more, but Soli looked away before she could see anything else, deciding to instead cast her eyes upon the nearby taupe, velvet chaise, one of many pieces of furniture in the sprawling lounge filled with warm sunshine.
Jae turned his body towards her. “Perhaps I should hire you, once my cousin is done.”
Soli turned her head back to him, keeping her eyes on his—not daring to drift any lower. “What?”
“You. Out there.” He nodded his head toward the door. “I could use a bodyguard like you.”
All she had wanted was to slip in, unnoticed, and to be on her way to an eventless bath. “You already have one.”
“Yes,” he agreed with a smile. “But I could always use one like you. More…presentable. A woman that could be at my side all hours of the day… and the night.”
She swallowed. His words seemed to coat her in further filth, and she thought of that bath as tantalizing as ever. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good at it.” She moved the hand on her hair down to her face, lightly touching the bruise.
Jae reached out to touch her face with the back of his occupied hand. She pulled away, bumping the back of her calves into the nearby chaise. He narrowed his brow at her withdrawal, and what warmth was in his eyes went cold as quickly as one would snuff a candle.
“I’m sorry,” she lied. “It hurts.”
His brow released, and his eyes lit up as he chuckled. “Of course, my apologies. I was not thinking. Of course it hurts.”
She managed a single weak laugh in reply.
He toasted her with his cup as he spoke. “Even then, I saw you give as well as he did.”
“Still,” she interjected with a nervous quake in her voice, “he is the better bodyguard.”
He took a sip and noncommittally raised his brow in response.
“I should clean up.” She turned away from him.
“Do not worry,” said Jae, stopping her with his suddenly stentorian tone.
She turned back to him. “What?”
His voice shifted, going from loud and strong to as if they were old friends, or perhaps lovers. “I will not tell a soul about this.” He put his hand out, and he held her by the shoulder. “I know how Irene and Etienne can be such bores.”
Soli summoned a nervous laugh. “Where I come from, songs and war go hand in hand. It would be considered odd for me not to practice.”
Jae smiled. “Of course! I understand. It is your way, and if you wish, my Northern jewel, I shall not tell them of the fighting.”
She blinked, waiting for him to continue, unsure what game he was playing at.
“I mean your relationship with my man. I cannot say that I understand it, but women are funny creatures. Especially you, my dear mistress, so far away from home all by yourself?” He squeezed her shoulder, and his unwelcomed touch seemed to penetrate through her armor. “You are young, so I cannot fault you for not knowing, but Randolph is an amazing man in so many ways—for someone like me.” He motioned to himself with his drink for emphasis. “I need him to fight and guard. But for you…” He brought the glass to her face, and extended his middle finger to caress the bottom of her chin.
She felt her stomach clench and the scent of grapes seemed sour. She wanted to strike him, to run away, or to at least say anything—but all she could manage was to stiffen at his touch. Even if she could move, she thought, what would she do? Striking down one of the most powerful men in Queensport? She would have been lucky to only get the gallows—and she had no intention of dying in Aveline. Her eyes searched to her left and to her right, but no one else was around.
“For you, my dear, dear, dear girl, you are a throw-away distraction. An oddity to entertain him.” His finger wandered from her chin while he spoke, to touch the edge of her bottom lip. “How can I put this in such a way for you to understand? To him, you are just another sheath to stuff.” He removed his hand, and the wretched scent went with it. “I am so sorry to have to say these things to you, but he does this with every beautiful woman that has passed through here: seamstresses, bakers, singers, poets, and so on and so on.”
Her cheeks felt as hot as they had been with the helm on while in the sun. She jerked her body away from him to the left, sidestepping him and avoiding the chaise. “I have to go.” She turned from him to leave, but she forced herself to walk slowly.
He said an overly familiar farewell, but she did not hear it. Her pulse was pounding in her head. Instead, she focused on her breathing, trying to calm herself. Her stomach felt as if she had swallowed gravel. The heat in her cheeks began to creep into her ear. She hoped he hadn’t seen it.
She marched straight to the bath, her steps becoming quicker the closer she got. As soon as she was inside she closed the door behind her, and latched it carefully—double checking to make sure it was locked tight. She took another deep breath while her hand was still on the handle before she turned around and walked to the bath. There, she settled onto the ledge of the tub and set the helm at her feet.
It was then that she noticed that her hands were shaking. With no helm to clutch onto, they were suddenly like a boat without an anchor, rocking and bobbing before her. She pressed them into her thighs to stop them and continued her deep breaths.
What the hell had Jae meant, she wondered. Men had always said things to her; they had always tried to touch her, but Jae had actually frightened her. She hated that she hadn’t strangled him in the hall or at least broken his hand. She hated that if she had, that she’d be a dead woman—that she couldn’t hurt him was the most frightening feeling of all.
With Roed in her life, no man had ever truly scared her. He had kept her safe or at least far enough away from the real threats. Even Justino was nothing but a blustering moron, and she always knew she could end him—and she did, with Randolph’s help.
What about Randolph? The one person she thought of as a friend? The one person she would miss when she left? Jae was a liar, she told herself, a vicious liar to say such things about Randolph. She thought she could trust Randolph.
No, that wasn’t right, she told herself, she knew she could.
Couldn’t she? If Jae would have attacked her, wouldn’t Randolph have done anything to help her? But then again, Jae paid Randolph—Soli didn’t.
The door-handle turned, but the lock below was latched. Her eyes shot to the handle, which turned a few more times. She opened her mouth, wanting to ask who it was—hoping it was Randolph. Perhaps he had overheard Jae, and that he was there now
to tell her that Jae would never touch her again.
“Mistress,” Jae said with the last vain turn of the handle. “I have thought it over, and I am, if nothing, a gentleman. Consider our lunch canceled today. We shall reschedule for tomorrow, after you have had time to rest and heal.”
Soli opened her mouth again, and managed a noise that sounded like a yes.
“Excellent. Enjoy your bath, my dear girl.”
Chapter 29
“Again!” snapped Vitoria. “And really act like you’re fighting for your life this time!”
Sylvaine was about to protest, but Aimee cut him off. “Don’t fight too hard! Watch out for her nose. We only set it yesterday.”
Sylvaine rolled his eyes as he blew an unnecessarily loud breath, which made his partially clotted split lip bleed again. “How am I supposed to ‘fight for my life’ if I can’t hit her in the face? That’s the first place someone would smack her!”
“Then you’re a fool, boy. The throat is the first place you should strike.” Vitoria mimicked a punch at Sylvaine’s throat.
Aimee had watched the two spar ever since Sylvaine came over. The entire time she had been wrenching her fingers in worry, occasionally tutting in apprehension. “Can’t you two practice something else? At least until the nose heals a bit more?” She slipped herself between the two.
“Fine,” said Vitoria, lowering her fists. She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “I’ll get my garrote.”
“Vitoria!” Aimee’s mouth went slack in shock.
Sylvaine took an instinctive, retreating step further away from Vitoria.
“What?” Vitoria crossed her arms. “That is the plan. I’ll garrote the man so he can’t even scream. All this?” She gestured to Sylvaine’s bruised face. “Is just in case.”
Sylvain took a noisy breath. “You’re not garroting me.” His face was so flushed he looked as if he was going to pop from the pressure building up in him.
Vitoria took a slow, deep breath and counted to five. “Fine. I can use some cloth instead.” She wanted to yell at the boy or to at least show him some real training, but part of her held back—the part that didn’t want to see Aimee frantic with worry—at least any more than she already was.
Aimee put her arms out: one flat hand to Vitoria, the other towards Sylvaine. “Nobody is garroting anyone here,” she said as if stating a rule—a rule that was not up for debate.
“Aimee, what am I supposed to do?” Vitoria unfolded her arms and ran her hands over her short hair. “I’ve been sitting here waiting! I only have thirteen days left! I need to do something!” She dropped her fidgety hands to her hips. It was only half-true. She knew that she needed practice, but what she really wanted was to stay focused. The more that she planned and kept herself busy, the less her mind’s discord raged, and quieter the voice inside her became.
“Now, Vitoria, I’m not saying that you cannot prepare.” Aimee’s words were slow and sympathetic, yet they were filled with an air of authority frequently seen in schoolmarms. “I only asked if there was another way you could prepare. I’ve asked you several times if you’re ready to have a dress fitted for the Jubilee. Can’t we do that?”
“Yeah,” added Sylvaine, glaring at Vitoria. “The bitch can do that, and I can get away from her.”
Vitoria’s eyes flickered at the word bitch. She cracked her knuckles as she lunged forward, pressing herself into Aimee’s outstretched hand. “Be pissy all you want, boy! It doesn’t matter. Your master, Conyers, gave you to me for as long as I want!” She hadn’t thought of Conyers for a long while, and the name rolling from her tongue left a sour taste in her mouth. “You’re nothing more than a tool he lends out as he pleases!”
“Oh, please!” Sylvaine huffed. “You don’t need me here! You just want to make him mad!” He put his arms out wide, as if declaring a revelation to a congregation. “Guess what? He’s mad!”
“Good!” she yelled, proclaiming the truth. She didn’t want to think of Conyers, but she was, and she couldn’t banish him from her mind. Her mind sometimes had a will that was not easily overcome, and she imagined him at home with his simple wife and boring child. He didn’t worry about a thing while she was forced to clean up his mess—all while being called a bitch by a brooding, whiney, fifteen-year-old apprentice. She cracked another knuckle.
Aimee pressed against Vitoria’s breast. “Stop it, you two!”
“How could you trick me into helping you kill his only brother?”
“Easily!” Vitoria snapped before he could even finish the question. There was no counting to five for her then—no attempts to calm down. The lad had carelessly stoked the embers of her rage, and her mind and body lit up in an instant. It was Conyers fault, her mind reasoned, that she would never know the truth from James.
James was dead because of him. It was all his fault.
Her pulse quickened, and adrenaline made her muscles feel alert yet unsettled. Her hands fidgeted. Conyers hid him instead of learning the truth for Vitoria.
“That is it! No more!” stated Aimee.
Vitoria’s eyes went from Sylvaine to Aimee, and she realized just then, that Aimee was pushing against her with both of her hands, keeping her from advancing on Sylvaine. She looked down at Aimee’s old, feeble hands pressing into her own breast, and she took a few steps back, turning away from the two.
Vitoria didn’t notice, but her own fidgety hands had curled into tight fists. She wanted to beat the boy, to beat him until he couldn’t say another word. Beat him so hard that he couldn’t ever pronounce the word bitch again.
The thud of her pulse intensified in her head, and it prodded the dormant voice inside her. It hissed in her mind, agitated in its sleep. She closed her eyes—but all she saw in the darkness of her mind was striking Sylvaine, over and over again with her fists, bashing his head into chunky pudding. No matter how hard she hit, she still heard the word bitch echoing in her mind.
The beaten Sylvaine turned into James. His head was already beaten to pink and white mush, but still her fist slammed into him, creating wet, sickening splats. The echoes continued—a multitude of male voices surrounding her. She didn’t stop, even when James’ body was limp—lifeless and useless to her or anyone else.
It was all Conyers fault, she told herself again, all of it—not just James’ death.
“There is plenty we can do without resorting to strangling each other under the guise of practice,” said Aimee. There was no malice or judgement in her tone; there was only a calm, diplomatic, motherly voice.
“She hates me! She hates me because of Conyers!” whined Sylvaine, like a defensive boy who was being scolded. He seemed far more hurt of the thought of Aimee’s disapproval than when Vitoria had knocked the wind out of him several minutes earlier.
“She doesn’t hate you, darling.” Aimee’s voice was warm and reassuring, as pleasant as a warm glass of milk on a cold, restless night.
“She does! She hates me because of Conyers.” His words were spilling out of him as fast as he could speak. “She hates him! He is nothing but good to her, and she wants to hurt him!”
Vitoria’s mind went dark. Only the shadowy outline of James could be seen, but the men’s voices continued—there were so many of them. Some chanted bitch, the others made hoots and calls, and a few did nothing but primordial growls. Her brain felt constricted, as if a coiling snake was wrapped around her brain. Her pulse throbbed, louder and stronger than before. A murmur of speech rattled inside her, the voice was awakening, but it was like the echo of a whisper buried by static. She pressed her hands to her temples. “Shut up,” she muttered.
“Conyers is her family,” continued Sylvaine. “That is how she treats family. She kills her husband, and the she hurts her brother-in-law—a man who has nothing but love for her.”
“Please, Sylvaine, it is not as simple as that—“
“It is!”
Vitoria pressed harder against her temples, rubbing them slightly in circles.
&nbs
p; He lied to you.
Her hands froze with the perfectly formed words of the voice within her, and it silenced the phantasmal calls of the others. She pressed her eyes tight, scrunching her brow.
He hid him from you. He is as guilty as the traitor.
“Shut up,” she whispered louder.
There was a pause from Aimee, as if she had heard something. “My boy, it simply is not. I know you love Conyers, but this is before your time. Things were complicated then.”
The words of the two behind Vitoria were getting harder for her to hear.
There is no complication in betrayal. Conyers is as guilty as his brother! He did that to you as much as James did. All of it is his fault.
“She makes things complicated!” Sylvaine laughed caustically. “Conyers wanted her to join him. He gave her this job! He has given her an opportunity to earn a family and a home, but she throws it aside! She even murdered his brother!”
“Listen here, James was not a good person. He was downright rotten, and Conyers knows that. You’re letting your love for him taint reality.”
He could have arranged for you to escape. Instead he hid that traitor. The word “traitor” echoed thrice. He could have paid them off—he could have made sure they never dropped you into that pit.
Vitoria’s lips parted; on the tip of her tongue were the words she wanted to say: shut up. But her words were impotent, and on her tongue they remained.
“You’re right. I do love him. He saved me. That is what he does. He takes people who need help, and he saves them. He gives them purpose and family.” Sylvaine’s words were sincere, and emotion hung upon them like a badge of pride.
He lived in comfort, screwing that annoying cunt, while he left you to die in that place.
“Stop,” was all she could think to say, and she said it—or at least she thought she said it. She pressed harder against her temples.