by C. M. Lind
But she wasn’t sad. She hadn’t killed him, and she regretted nothing from that night.
Vitoria pulled the stiff gloves on. They fit snuggly over her bracers and sleeve all the way up to her shoulder.
At least part of her must have known, but she had been selfish. Ulrich so desperately wanted to be her friend, but he couldn’t truly be one to her. How could a friend be called such when he doesn’t even know who you really are?
Next she pulled her face mask out, the same thing she had used before at Iron’s Rest, and she snapped it over her face. But it did not contain the concoction that Aimee had created within anymore. She didn’t need it for that, only to protect her flesh.
He is no better than a traitor.
What do we do to traitors?
Her fists crashing onto James’ face burned in her mind, snuffing out within a second as one would blow out a candle only to be replaced with her on top of the imposter. The first person she could share her thoughts with, truly unfiltered, turned out to be some sort of monstrous madman.
I will always be here to keep you safe.
With the help of the moon and the stars, it did not take her very long to see what she came for: freshly fallen fruit scattered on the ground. She found a few that were perfect. Their skin was free from the holes left by beaks that many others had—apparently the crows could eat them. She picked them up. They were plump and full of juice, ready to pop at the slightest pressure, so she handled them as one would a golden-shelled egg.
You trusted him, and he let you down. Just like all the others.
It was the part that had crushed her the most.
You can’t trust anyone!
The cursed voice had been proven right. Once again, it seemed to be the only thing that would keep Vitoria from danger.
She laid the last of the three plums into the jar, screwed the cap on, and slipped it back into her bag.
But maybe she didn’t care much for safety anymore, and, soon, she wouldn’t have to worry about such things. She’d be free from Conyers, Sylvaine, Justicars, Not-Ulrich, and the memory of James.
Chapter 59
The day before, when Randolph had slunk into the manor smelling of booze and sweat, he found that no one had particularly noticed his absence. He had Guy and Val to thank for that. The two men had said that Randolph had fallen ill, and he was resting in his room—not to be disturbed by anyone. The other guards all nodded, agreeing to the lie and keeping any busybodies away.
His men may have been martially incompetent, but Randolph had never been more proud of them.
Randolph was washed, shaved, and dressed within an hour of getting back, and, he figured, no one needed to know about his blackout drinking.
And the fenweed.
And, gods above, most certainly not the women.
It was the day of the Jubilee, and Randolph did his best to make himself look busy. Any problem he found, he turned into a full-scale crisis. The table runners were the wrong shade of cream, so he put on a good show of yelling for a half an hour even though it changed nothing. Several of the centerpieces looked wilted, or so he claimed, and after forty-five minutes screaming and reprimanding the florist, they were replaced just in the nick of time.
He even took it upon himself to personally taste a fair amount of the food the kitchen was making, claiming he needed to make certain that everything was perfect. He told himself it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he had spent days drinking on an empty stomach and that he still felt ravenous.
All those things he did, and more, to keep his distance from all of the Reinouts, Irene, and, especially, Soli. That woman would take one look at him, and she’d know that he had run off like a scared boy, avoiding the problem.
He didn’t know much about women, and, to be perfectly frank, he had never really had what one would call an exclusive partner, more commonly known as a girlfriend. But even with what little Randolph thought he knew, he was absolutely certain that women didn’t like being cheated on (for the first time, he felt lucky that he and Soli did not officially have any real relationship, so there was no reason for her ever to be upset). Even then, it was a lesson he did not feel like he needed to learn firsthand, and he was content with his assumption.
When faced with crisis, he had run off to handle things like he would have done years ago, doing gods know what, and his brain didn’t even have the courtesy to allow him to remember what it was. At least if Soli asked him anything, he didn’t even have the option of telling the truth. He had spent a fortune on lost time.
Even though he did his best to stay busy throughout the day, eventually, he ran out of things to manage. He had done such a good job with planning, that the whole event seemed to fall in place without much of his meddling.
The musicians were where they belonged, a group for every area: the garden and the patio, the dining hall, the reception area, the ball room, and even the entrance path to welcome those arriving in their carriages. As Randolph walked about, he heard strings, brass, the voices of men and women, woodwinds, and drums, all of them tuning and practicing—creating an alien cacophony.
The flowers were all in place; vases and bowls of red, white, cream, yellow, pink, and green filled every open space. The entire estate was filled with the sweetness of lilies, honeysuckle, roses, and many more flowers that Randolph did not know the names of. The honeysuckle was wrapped around the bases of the flowers like a ribbon, and Randolph only knew what they were because he used to collect them for his mother. He’d weave them into small crowns, and she, like the beautiful queen she was in his eyes, would wear them until they died and crumbled from her head.
And next to the countless flowers were silver and gold gilded platters. Most of them were empty since the meats wouldn’t be put out until the moment the guests arrived, within an hour or so, figured Randolph. The others were already filled with cookies, truffles, cupcakes, pies, candied nuts and fruits, puddings, and tarts. Doing his part, Randolph decided to sample a generous amount of each variety he saw, and his recently starved body growled a very audible “thank you.”
The banners were unfurled. The staff was dressed in clean, fresh uniforms. The acrobats and entertainers were stretched and ready. All of Randolph’s men, the ones that were not ill, were in place, and there was nothing left for Randolph to do but worry.
And he did worry. He couldn’t stop.
He hoped for the best case scenario: Vitoria doesn’t show up. She decides to leave town, and Randolph never hears about her again. But Randolph had seen the body of Vaux. He figured a woman who does that to someone doesn’t just decide to leave. A woman like that finishes what she starts.
Since things never seemed to go well for Randolph, he thought of the next best scenario: Vitoria slips in, kills Jae without anyone seeing, and she’s gone like a ghost. She doesn’t blame Randolph for her being in The Cliffs, since it was all Jae’s plan, and she leaves him alone. He finds the body later. No one is blamed, but Randolph is still fired by Lilane. She refuses to give him all the pay he is owed—that bitch—and Randolph has to take his skills elsewhere. No other noble house in Aveline will take someone who failed to protect his lord, so he ends up returning to the military, and he dies pathetically poor, fighting in a muddy mire somewhere—more than likely in the impending scuffle between Aveline and Osterlock. Hooray.
But he also figured that there was the neutral scenario: Vitoria kills Jae, and then she turns her attention to Randolph. She attacks him, but she fails. Randolph then has to kill a woman whose life he has already destroyed. He doesn’t think he’ll have it in him to just subdue her. He knows that Balfour would throw her right back in The Cliffs, and, because he cannot stand the thought of sending her to the pits for the second time, he must kill her. Since Jae is dead, Randolph still ends up poor, alone, and miserable, dying in a marsh or something equally as sticky. And gross. And filled with mosquitos.
Then there is the most likely scenario: Vitoria sneaks in and kill
s Jae. Then she turns her attention to the one who was responsible for throwing her into The Cliffs. He dies choking on poison or from his throat being slit—either way he’s dead, and he can’t blame her for it.
But his mind, discontent with his list, created what he thought of as the most likely scenario—but with the worst extremes: Vitoria kills Jae. She attacks Randolph, but she doesn’t make it quick. It takes days for him to die in agony. In that time, he is fired and disgraced, left penniless and nothing to show for his pathetic life. Soli, still under contract with the Reinouts for a few days after the Jubilee, spends a lot of time with Balfour during the investigation. The two fall head-over-heels, blindingly-stupid, extra-passionately in love, and lust, with each other, and Randolph hangs in there just long enough to hear their engagement announced. His last thought before he dies (somehow from a murderous horse) is of that twat Balfour on top of his woman, and his stupid, dumb, curly hair bouncing around while he mounts her.
Randolph shivered. Recoiling from his own thoughts, he left the house, preferring the fresh air.
On the patio was a string quartet. They were playing a song that sounded familiar to Randolph. It was one that people would hear at weddings and celebrations but no one ever knew the name of.
The servers had already prepared the area, and it was filled with flowers and food just like the rest of the place, but it had one thing different: Soli, half-hidden by a horse-shaped topiary on the edge of the patio. She didn’t seem to notice him.
Like him, she must have been keeping herself away from the others, for there was no reason why she should have been there.
Randolph, with his scenarios fresh in his mind, realized it could possibly be the last time he would be able to speak with her alone. He could easily be dead or ruined by the end of the night, and, if the worst of his thoughts came true, Soli could be unavailable to him.
He wanted to tell her that he loved her, and the moment he thought the exact words, they were gone: lost in his vacuous, faulty brain.
He turned to a vase at his left. It was filled with sweet scents and colors, and he carefully pulled a vine of blooming, pale pink honeysuckle from the base. Wild yet beautiful, honeysuckle was one of his favorite things in life as a child. It grew almost anywhere. Surviving the harshest of winters and the driest of summers, it was the toughest plant he knew of. It was also honest, for it smelt as sweet as its name would suggest, and it tasted even better.
Listening to the music, he quickly braided the vine together to create a garland, leaving a long tail of vine at the end. Passing the quartet, he smiled and nodded, approving of their skill. Only one politely returned the gesture, her eyes upon the flowers in his hand, and he realized how silly he must have looked.
There was Randolph, with his perpetual shadow of stubble, wearing his usual worn leathers and chain, walking into the topiaries with stolen flowers.
Soli was wearing a pale green gown, the hem just kissing the ground that she walked upon and the collar cradling her neck. Her sleeves were long and tight, and they pushed out over her hand to rest upon her knuckles. The embroidered pattern was simple: intertwined lilies.
He made no effort to sneak up on her, and she smiled as she saw him approach, a raised eyebrow directed at the garland in his hands. “It looks like you found me.” The green gown brought out her eyes, and they shimmered like bright moss covered with dew. “I hope the others haven’t.”
Randolph shook his head. “Not that I know.”
She rubbed her hands together. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I don’t think I’ve been the only one hiding.”
He smiled, rubbing a blossom between his fingers. “No, not the only one.”
“I’ve seen you around today. Busy?”
He took a step closer to her. Her hair was the same as she always wore it, except it looked rich with oil and smelled like almonds. “I’ve been trying to be.”
“Maybe you should have spent some time getting a little dressed up.” She gestured to herself and rolled her eyes. “This kept me busy for hours.” She settled her eyes upon his face. “You could have at least shaved,” she teased with a smirk.
He grinned. “I did shave.”
“Oh,” she said.
He rubbed a hand over his perpetual stubble. Shaving was a battle he would never win. It always sprouted back up within an hour, he swore. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s just the way of things.”
“No,” she said. “I can tell now. You look nice.”
“It’s alright.” He winked at her. “I am a mercenary, sweetheart, so I might as well look it.”
She shrugged. “Then what does that say about me?”
He took another step closer, biting his lower lip while he thought of what to say. “I don’t think you need gowns or shoes or ribbons.” He brushed his hand over her braid, and she didn’t pull away from him. “Or oil in your hair.”
She snickered. “That is what I keep thinking.”
“Because you’re already perfect.”
The smile on her face vanished.
“You are missing one thing though.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, and he swore she could hear it. “May I?”
She eyed him, and a few seconds passed in silence, before she nodded once.
Randolph set the garland upon her head so that the long ribbon of flowers hung over her braid. “I told you before about my family, and how I spent a lot of time with my mother.” He pressed the crown on tight, and he took the trail of flowers and slipped it into the top of her loose braid. “I used to pick wildflowers for her, like this, and, when I was much, much, younger mind you, I would make her these crowns.” He wound the vine around and through the braid, taking care not to upset the small pink blossoms. “They’d make her so happy, that someone would find and make anything for her, that she’d never take them off until they died.”
Soli stayed completely still as he worked the flowers through her braid. Even when his fingertips brushed the hard scars where her ear should have been, she didn’t flinch.
Even when his fingers lingered a little too long on those scars, she let him touch her.
“She was the most wonderful person I had ever known.” He finished the last loop through her braided, brunette hair. “She was strong and fair. She always seemed to know what was right, and she’d let you know.” He wound the last of the vine around the bright, chartreuse ribbon at the end of her braid. “She was kind to me though, kinder than anyone else had ever been to me, and she always made me feel good about myself.”
The braid, woven and crowned with honeysuckle, was finished, and his hand dropped to her shoulder. He smiled at her, approving of his work. It had been years, but his hands remembered how to braid and weave like he was six all over again.
He trailed his hand down her arm, and he slipped his fingers in between hers. They were softer than ever before, and her nails were painted a shimmering pearl, edged with silver at the tips.
His skin was rough, as usual, and his nails were hard and some edges were broken with dirt under them. He half-expected her to pull away, that his calloused flesh might actually hurt her.
But she didn’t. Her fingers held his back.
“I wanted you to know,” he took her hand, squeezed it, and brought it to his face. “She used to be the one person in this world I loved more than anyone else.”
Her lips fell open, and all she could do was blink as he pressed his lips in her palm, kissing her as if he would never kiss her again.
She stuttered, not words but sounds, all in time with her fluttering eyelids.
“It’s alright.” He lowered her hand and squeezed it one last time before he let go. Whether or not she felt the same way was unimportant to him. He finally was able to tell her what he needed to. “I don’t expect you to say a thing, sweetheart.”
She tried again, and he thought she was trying to say his name.
He laughed at her speechlessness. “Trust me,” he said, turning to head back to the manor, k
nowing people would be arriving soon, “I know the feeling.”
Chapter 60
Vitoria fit in easily with the rest of Odette Debeau’s entourage. At her side was Mikis, who kept sneaking winks and giggles at her whenever he could. She ignored him. She already felt foolish enough in the gown, wig, and half an inch of makeup, and she didn’t want Mikis to know how much his taunts actually bothered her.
Their carriage pulled up to the manor, and brass instruments trumpeted their arrival. They were two hours late, the appropriate time, stated Odette, for the level of their prestigious personage.
“Only boring people are on time,” she declared with a wink while she tented her fingertips together. “And you, like me, are most certainly not boring.”
Vitoria’s mother, on the other hand, would have said that whatever time that they made it to something was the exact time they were meant to. Her poor, dead mother believed too much in fate—and look where that had landed her.
Vitoria preferred Odette’s view.
They entered the manor, and the herald announcing guests faltered, staring at Odette’s silver feet.
Odette wouldn’t let him off easy though, and she waited, her eyes smoldering at him, until he announced them.
“Madam Odette Debeau.” He cleared his throat. “And company.”
Her fiery eyes relented, and she smiled at the room. Walking forward with the confidence of a queen, she split a path through the gawking nobility.
The Reinout manor was how Odette had described it to her, but with the Jubilee, it was far more ostentatious than she had prepared for. The sounds alone overwhelmed her. Endless chattering, laughing, music, and clanking of dishes and glasses alone made her wish for the solitude of Aimee’s attic.
Her only comfort was that the voice within was dormant, as it tended to do when she was focused—and Vitoria was extremely focused. Her hand went to the small, hidden pocket in her gown, and she patted the vial within, just to make sure, for the twentieth time since leaving Turmont’s Tinctures, that it was still there. It was.