by C. M. Lind
Many of the guests looked away from the troupe, murmuring and snickering with each other. A few looked with graphic intent, licking their lips while their eyes undressed the women. A couple of spectators even lingered their eyes upon Mikis Savas. None of the nobles approached them though—except one.
He was undeniably handsome, dressed in a fitted tunic of heavy brocade the colors of rosewood and vermillion that snuggly hugged his lean torso. On his breast there gleamed a brilliant, bright amulet of gold and emerald that appeared too heavy to be comfortable. His long, braided-back blonde hair looked like sunflowers under the glow of the candlelight around them, and his blue eyes looked black, like how Vitoria recalled the ocean’s water looking the night she escaped The Cliffs.
The man rushed to Odette, his eyes deliberately lingering on every part of her as he grabbed her hands in welcome, shaking them like an excited schoolboy. “You are such a lovely sight for these starved eyes, my dear!”
Odette became a simulacrum of his delight. “You have no idea how long I have yearned for this night!” She enveloped him with her arms, and he was only too eager to accept her touch. Her head rested on his shoulder as he squeezed her in his strong arms so tightly that her feet left the ground for a few seconds.
She winked at Vitoria, and then he set her down.
Odette immediately turned back to her entourage, still holding the man’s arm with her right hand. With a smile, she introduced the other girls, and Mikis conveniently turned himself away, as if interested in the people around them.
Lastly, she turned to Vitoria. “And this is Mara. She is our newest little flower.” Odette leaned close to the man’s ear. Her fingers rubbed his arm in rhythm with the words she whispered. “Untouched. She still has all her little petals.”
He put his hand out, and Vitoria took it. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear.”
From how Odette had described the man, Vitoria almost expected to notice some monstrous feature—but there was nothing. He was unjustly attractive, and he utterly knew it. Vitoria smiled at him, nodding her head. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He smelled sickeningly of agarwood and indulgence, and his smooth, soft hand felt more like rose petals than flesh. Jae Reinout was exactly how Odette had described him, right down to his pathetically predicable behavior when presented with a redheaded virgin.
Jae chuckled, squeezing her hand one last time before letting it go. “Let us save the pleasure for later, ladies.”
Odette giggled, and the other women followed suit—except Vitoria, who could only manage a polite smile.
“Enjoy my party, and we shall speak again later.” He leaned over to Odette and kissed her on the cheek before he turned to slip back into the throng of guests around them.
“Don’t rush your fun.” Mikis had turned back to them, and he was uncomfortably close to Vitoria’s ear. “The rest of us wouldn’t mind a bit ourselves before you have your way with him.”
Vitoria stepped away from the man, following Odette deeper into the party.
Chapter 61
“How inappropriate,” whispered Etienne to Soli.
It was the same thing he had said about her garland, which he chided as crude and childish as well before he took it from her. It was the first time a man had ever given her flowers, and they were gone. He said she could have it back after the party, but she had a heartbreaking suspicion that it was sitting in garbage.
He wanted her perfect, and he had kept her at his side all evening, draped over his arm, introducing her to everyone he came across that evening. He spoke for her: she’s a northerner; she’s a trusted part of the Reinout household, and she has been for a long while. She’s talented, and she’s an accomplished scholar.
She felt more like a scarf than a guest.
He shook her, and her head snapped to attention. She had been lost in thought again. “What?” she asked.
He nodded toward the gaggle of painted harlots leaving the reception hall. Their breasts were pushed up by corsets, which they scandalously wore outside their gowns. Their oiled and coifed hair had bright ribbons and sparkling stones, and their hems were a few inches shy of the appropriate length for the occasion.
“Why are they here?” she asked.
Etienne exhaled a frustrated sigh, one would give a rambunctious toddler. “Because Jae always does what Jae wants.” He took a sip of his chardonnay. “And if Jae wants to create a spectacle by inviting whores then he will.” He raised his glass to his lips as his eyes lingered on the only anomaly of the group of women: the one man who trailed behind them. “And Jae always is the one who gets what he wants.”
Soli’s eyes went about the room, to the all the men who pretended not to be excited by them. They stole glances where they could, when their wives and sweethearts weren’t watching them. They were all pathetic liars, thought Soli, every one of them wanted those women, but none of them would admit it.
A gentleman who had missed the entrance of the women turned a corner, bumping into their leader, a woman who looked to have heavy silver shoes. He stumbled over an apology while the silver shoed woman laughed away the mistake, running her fingers along his wrist and arm.
After a few moments a woman, who Soli assumed was the man’s wife, pulled him away; her eyes were a fiery maelstrom of jealousy and hate. The man was smitten though, and he found himself a chair to sit, cross-legged, in immediately.
All little liars, she thought, as Etienne continued to whisper, more to himself than her, about what a disgusting show his cousin was putting on for all the gossip mongering guests.
The wife angrily whispered at the seated, smitten man, her neck and brow becoming as red as her overly rouged cheeks. Soli smiled at the thought of a mere reprimand or threat of harm being able to undo the man’s wicked attraction to another—it simply wouldn’t do, she thought. She was beginning to understand, quite undeniably, that people are attracted to who they are attracted to by no fault of their own.
Her eyes left them, and what Soli decided was a prime example of a regretful marriage, to wander the room. The whole estate was so full of guests that even the reception hall was filled with loitering people. In that one room was a display of wealth and grandeur that Soli had never seen in all her life.
At home, the jewelry and the clothes were different. They were beautiful, or so she thought, but they were also practical. Clothing you couldn’t fight or run in was considered irresponsible. All around her in the Reinout manor she saw a staggering amount of irresponsibility.
Even the jewelry was so different to her. She grew up with carved wood and bone. There was also metal and gems, but they were rare, and usually they were only worn by people like her mother and father—and, even then, never to the extent she saw that night at Jae’s Jubilee. Avelinians always seemed to try to sparkle the brightest, but all a sparkly gem would accomplish would be a distraction of the eye, she concluded. All those people seemed to create was a masterful show of obfuscation: a glimmer to distract and a shroud to conceal the real person underneath.
Her eyes continued to scan the room, and, by the door deep in a hushed conversation with Guy and Val, stood Randolph as she had always seen him before: honest in the attire that suited him, his practical patchwork of armor.
She tried to fight the smile that crept up on her, but she failed. Randolph did not notice, as he had kept his gaze away from her for most of the night. Another noble approached Etienne, and he instantly was completely engrossed with conversation that did not include her. While Soli’s was draped upon Etienne’s arm, her thoughts were in the garden earlier that day.
And it was that moment, that she finally realized that Randolph had just confessed his love to her—real, passionate, romantic love, and not the camaraderie that she thought they shared. Not the friendship that he had claimed before he was only interested in. Not simple lust that he could have shared with anyone.
And she had said nothing in return.
But, she thought, what
would she have said to him in return?
Her hand shot to her neck, where her beloved Roed’s ashes rested, hidden behind her gown. If he had been alive, Soli and Randolph would have never met, and she would have never had to think such things. Feel such things. Want such things. She pressed her hand against the satchel through her dress.
Roed was supposed to be at the Reinout manor. Not her. It wasn’t her fate to be there or to be plagued with such thoughts. Thoughts that would make her mother ashamed, she told herself again. Her hand retreated from the pouch, hovering above it a few inches.
But Ravel, she thought. He would have understood. He had felt the same things that she had, but he had been beaten for it. Her eyes glanced at Etienne, a proper and kind gentleman, who was telling a few young women all about how well Soli had been fitting in with Jae, and that the two had quite a rapport.
No, she corrected herself, Ravel wasn’t beaten for it.
Her hovering hand moved to her face. Closing her eyes, she pressed it against her cheek.
Ravel had fought for it.
Chapter 62
The whores had left the entrance hall, and the entire evening was on schedule. Randolph should have felt, at least, an inkling of accomplishment—but he didn’t. He had watched the front door, and, as far as he could tell, no assassin had slipped in. Everyone was accounted for, and everyone had an invitation. He didn’t know why he even bothered watching. He wasn’t sure what he would have done had he suspected anyone. Would he have thrown them out, or would he have told them to have a lovely evening?
He was leaning towards the latter, but, as with confessing his love earlier that evening, he wasn’t sure how things would play out until it was happening. He thought it went well enough before, but the flowers he had given Soli were nowhere to be found. He chastised himself. Of course a woman like her probably found his cheap gift silly, and there was no way she would have ever worn it at such a party.
Regardless, Guy and Val made for good enough company during the Jubilee. The two were nice enough. They didn’t ask too many questions, and they always played along with Randolph’s “official business” talk when anyone got too close to hear. For the most part though, Randolph just listened to Guy and Val as they played a “who’d you rather” with the ladies of the room.
They left Soli out of their fantasies, so Randolph left them alone.
Balfour entered the reception hall from the ball room, and, to Randolph’s disappointment, he walked straight for him.
Randolph sighed. “Keep up the watch, boys,” he said as he pushed himself from the wall he was leaning on.
Guy and Val nodded, never missing a beat of their debate.
Randolph met Balfour, who was practically fuming underneath his overly-shiny plate, halfway.
“Is it true?” Balfour snapped as quietly as he could.
“Where babies come from?” Randolph waggled his brow. “Oh, yeah. Believe it.”
Balfour huffed as his eyes rolled so hard that Randolph thought they might have hurt themselves. “The harlots.”
“What about them?”
Balfour leaned in to whisper. “Did Lord Reinout seriously invite a whole brothel here?”
“No,” said Randolph. “He only invited about half of a brothel.”
“I cannot be seen around such women!”
Randolph raised a brow at Balfour, the rest of his face completely slack. “Really?” He blinked. “This is where you draw the line? You know that you have hanged children, right?”
“This evening is supposed to enhance my prospects—not diminish it with slanderous gossip.”
“Then stay away from them,” said Randolph.
The severity from Balfour’s face faded, and he chuckled. “Look at us, the two strangest men here.”
Randolph did not see the connection. He raised his brow again.
Balfour sighed. “The only two who have no interest in those type of women.”
Randolph suddenly recalled the purr of the woman from the other day. He swallowed. “Yep, that’s us.”
“Oh, and of course Etienne.” Balfour nodded his way.
There was Etienne, with Soli upon his arm, engaged in a lively discussion with three young noblewomen. Randolph swore he caught a brief second of Soli glancing at him.
“But why would he look anywhere else when he has her.” Balfour sighed. “I suppose we should be happy for them. At least she is safe and cared for.”
“Safe?” scoffed Randolph. “Are you serious?”
“What?” asked Balfour. “Do you believe she is more suited to running around the streets with you? Getting into fights and visiting the morgue?”
“I never made her go anywhere she didn’t want to.”
Balfour shook his head. “Regardless, I am glad to see those days done. The closer the eye that Etienne keeps on her, the better.”
Randolph’s eyes shot from Soli on Etienne’s arm to Balfour. “You twat!” he seethed. “You’re the one who told.”
“Of course I did,” whispered Balfour. “If my beloved was doing such things, I certainly would want to be told.”
“You made her life miserable!” snapped Randolph.
“If anyone is to blame it is you, Micah.” He glared. “You should have never brought her to such a place.”
“You had no right to tell!” said Randolph. “She’s her own person, and she does as she wants.”
“And what of Etienne? Does he have the right to concern for her?”
“Gods, Balfour!” Randolph narrowed his eyes. “They’re not together!”
“Oh,” said Balfour. “I see now.”
“You were just sniffing around her like a dog in heat,” said Randolph. “It was disgusting.”
“A dog in heat, you say?” Balfour chuckled, turning to leave. “If anyone, Micah, has been running around trying to rut her like a common bitch, it has, most certainly, been you.”
Chapter 63
They had all been there for about an hour, and Vitoria’s eyes never left her target. He was always there, in her peripherals, as Odette and the others scattered around the ballroom, chatting up whoever they could.
All of them made their little deals, and they snuck off to unused rooms and closets while Vitoria played Mara: an innocent, sweet, young girl, unsure of the majesty of the party.
Mara was focused, and she was never plagued with distractions in her own mind.
Mara sat by herself on the outskirt of the dance floor, taking small sips of sherry and occasionally sampling the food. But Mara, unlike the others, was shy, and she kept away from the conversations around her. She was content to watch the dancers. She was so shy, that occasionally she would move around the edges of the room, to find another, less occupied, couch to sit on—a couch that happened to be closer to Vitoria’s target, Jae Reinout.
All around the floor beautiful people moved. Their arms were wrapped around each other as their colorful gowns swished around them. Their hair was adorned with gemmed and feathered hats that glimmered from the candlelight of the above crystalline chandeliers. Their bodies were close, pressed against each other—a societally sanctioned respite from polite loneliness. It was the closest two souls could be, publically, among the civilized of society without causing scandal.
While Mara saw their color and movement, she did not look at their faces, because the only face she was interested in was making his way to the door, to leave the ballroom.
She set down her glass of sherry, abandoning it amidst a table of little brown chocolate bars topped with raspberry jam and white shavings. Pushing through a group of rather gossipy young lords, she knew she would have to cut through the dancers to catch up with her target, a simple enough thing, given how slow they were moving, bodies pressed against each other.
She stepped onto the dance floor. Her eyes were on the target, and passing him, was Mikis, whose eyes made contact with her, giving her a wink and a smile before being lost in the horde of people among the ballroom. Her e
ye twitched as she saw Mikis, trying to forget about the favor she would undoubtedly owe him if she survived the night, and she repressed a gag.
A hand slipped around her waist, pulling her back onto the floor. She heard Ulrich’s voice: “I’ve got you.”
But it wasn’t Ulrich. It was the imposter, Not-Ulrich. She turned to him, and he pulled her close, pressing her torso against his teal tunic, embroidered to mimic the turbulent waves of the sea. His hand grabbed hers, leading her along.
Vitoria’s instinct was to push him away, to scream at him and tear him apart with her words, and possibly her hands. But Mara would not do that. Mara followed along the best she could, allowing him to lead her through their slow, intimate, simple waltz with a smile upon her face.
She looked at him. He was clean, and he no longer looked ill. Either through rest, medicine, or makeup, he didn’t look out of place at all—except for his eyes. There was a strange, wide, maddened look in them.
She strained her lips up to his ear. “Let me go,” she whispered through her clenched smile.
“No.” He guided her along, nuzzling his lips and chin against the top of her cherry-red wig. “I can’t.”
She pulled her head away from his, the best she could without drawing attention to them. “I should kill you.”
“That would be a waste of your time,” he said. “No doubt that lordling would be long gone by the time you’re done with me.” He laughed. “If you win.”
Silence sat between them as he pulled her through the steps; his strong arms practically carried her and her untrained feet the entire time.
“I didn’t realize they let any piece of garbage in here.”
She felt his whole body tremble from a half-suppressed laugh.
“I didn’t use the front door.”
“Of course,” she muttered. “Let me go.”
He lowered his lips to her ear, his feet never missing a beat. “I can’t,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes as she felt his hot breath, and she remembered him, bare and underneath her. Both of them sweating. Moaning. As she opened her eyes, the image, but not the sensation that accompanied it, was gone.