by C. M. Lind
“You see, if I’m not helping you then I must be helping them.” She heard him swallow. “And, if I am helping them, I should probably let someone know that the assassin is here.”
She sank her fingers into his shoulder. “Don’t.”
He moved his lips closer to her, and they brushed her ear. “I’m either yours, or I am theirs.”
She pulled her head away from him. “Don’t threaten me.”
“It’s not a threat.” He looked down into her eyes. “It’s a fact. You need to choose.”
“That isn’t much of a choice.”
“I’m hoping it will be an easy decision for you.” He pulled her close against him again. “I think you know what I’d prefer.”
After a few measure of music she asked, “What happened to Ulrich?”
“You know what happened to him.”
“Was it quick?”
“You humans always ask that. Does it really make it any better?” His voice paused only for a moment. “He’s dead, and I killed him.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Answer me.”
“I won’t lie to you. Not ever again. I promise.” He squeezed her waist as he whispered. “It was over relatively fast, but he died in terror.”
She nodded.
“Does that upset you?”
Her mouth fell open, and a few seconds passed between them. “I don’t know.”
He chuckled. “There seems to be a lot of that going on lately.”
“You said you won’t lie to me. You promise?” she asked. “Never? Even about the smallest things?”
The music ended, and the dancers slowed for their final moment of embrace. “I swear,” he nuzzled her one last time before the two separated.
He bowed.
She curtsied.
Liar, whispered the voice.
Some of the dancers stayed on the floor, eager for the next song. Some, including Vitoria and Not-Ulrich, walked away, arm in arm.
The moment the music began again, she stepped close to him, turning her head up to his ear. “I accept you,” she seethed. “Since I have to.”
“You?” His whole body quaked as he sharply exhaled, as if a foul spirit had suddenly left him. He nodded several times as a large, foolish smile overtook him. “You do?”
She paused, unable to believe her own words, before she nodded.
The smile was stripped from his face in an instant. “How do I know you mean it?”
“You don’t lie to me. I won’t lie to you.”
He eyed her, and she knew he doubted her.
“You don’t know me as well as you think.” Her hand went to the secret pocket of her gown. Inside it, she felt her supplies for the evening within, and right beside that sat a thin golden band. She fished it out. “Here. This is your burden now.” Through sleight of hand, she slipped it into his palm. “Have a reminder of your oath to me.”
He smiled, curling his fingers around the ring. “Then let us begin, my mistress.”
Chapter 64
“It seems the Justicar is smitten with you,” said Etienne, handing Soli a glass of amber wine. “He has brought you several bottles.”
It was the only time since the beginning of the party that Etienne had left her side, and, even then, it was only for a few minutes that she was free from his eyes. She had used those precious minutes to watch Randolph. She failed at willing him to look at her. All she wanted was a simple glance so she could smile at him. A smile would have been a lacking response to his declaration earlier, but it was all she could think of.
She raised her brow as she accepted the glass from Etienne. She brought it to her nose and smelled: slightly yeasty, mild, and sweet.
“I hope you do not mind,” Etienne said with a simper. “I took the liberty of opening one of them for us.”
“Not at all,” said Soli. She figured that if Balfour was smitten with her, the better for him to see her sharing the gift with another man.
“Cheers.” Etienne raised his own glass, and she clinked hers against it.
They both drank.
It was sweet, and she tasted honey within it. She smiled. “It almost reminds me of home.” She thought of her family.
“Perhaps that is why the man brought it.” Etienne took another sip. “It is rather pleasant for dandelion wine, do you not think?”
“Dandelion?” She took another sip. “I can’t taste it above the sweetness.”
Etienne laughed. “Perhaps that is why it is better!”
She smiled. Taking another drink, she drained a couple inches from the glass.
Across the room, Randolph still stood with Val and Guy. Even with Etienne’s presence, she sorely wished he would venture over, if only to say hello. She wanted to apologize for her silence earlier, but she knew she couldn’t in front of Etienne. At the very least, she wanted to hint that the two needed to talk later on. Perhaps to give him a clue to pay her a visit after most people had passed out, exhausted from too much wine, food, and dancing.
She felt like a fool for not running over to him before, when Etienne had disappeared to fetch drinks. She should have, she reprimanded herself.
Another nobleman, and his sour-looking wife, approached Etienne. Within a few minutes of pleasantries, the two men were discussing the expensive tariffs on imported iron. The nobleman joked with Etienne about how foolish it was there weren’t any local mines available to produce superior Avelinian ore.
Soli might have well as been miles away as she stared at Randolph. Her mind replayed the scene in the garden ten times over, but, in her head, she had been anything but silent and still. Regardless of what her family might have thought, in her imagination she held his hand. She embraced him. She kissed him.
She felt a fluttering in her body, and her head felt light.
Her hand was at her breast again, touching the pouch through her dress. Perhaps it was her fate to meet Randolph after all, and who was she to deny fate? Perhaps Roed was not grieved by her desires. Maybe he was watching, pulling his hair out in frustration over her hesitance. Roed was a man, after all, who sincerely believed in godly direction and destiny—and he always wished for her to become more pious.
Etienne and the man had moved from talk of iron to talk of war, particularly the inevitability of it.
Soli was oblivious to them, and she preferred her memories and daydreams to their talk.
She’d see her family again, for sure, but that also included Ravel—and who else of her blood would know as well as her about such feelings. She doubted her mother or father still bode him ill will, and, if they could forgive him, then maybe they could her. What was worse for her: to do something she wanted and disappoint her parents or to deny herself someone only to find out later they never would have cared?
She fumbled, her knees were weak, and the lightness in her head moved to every part of her body except her stomach, which was filled with a sudden nausea.
Etienne caught her with his arm. As she righted herself, blinking several times through the haze that was fogging her mind, he politely shooed away his visitors with a polite joke about the fragilities of women when mixed with wine.
Her glass fell from her hand, landing on a tray of sweet rolls and splashing wine over the white linens that lined the table. She hadn’t even felt it leave her hand, which she thought was still clenched. No one heard it over the chatter and music around them.
Her eyes looked to her hands. They were open and loose, and she found herself unable to flex them, as if her muscles were beginning to fall asleep.
“It is alright,” Etienne calmed her, wrapping his arm around her even tighter. “I have you.”
She looked at him, blinking several times. “I don’t feel well,” was all she could muster.
“I know. I know,” said Etienne tenderly. “I will take care of you.” He set his glass down. “You’re tired; you need to rest.” He picked up her fallen glass, and he set it up right next to his.
Soli blinked again, and she felt
like she had drunk a bottle of wine by herself. Her stomach rolled and clenched, and it reminded her of her lunch with Jae before—except far worse.
“You will feel better after we get you to bed.” He patted her hand, and he turned her body to walk with him.
“Jae?” she asked.
“What about him?” he asked, tugging on her to follow.
She didn’t. “At lunch.” She glanced back at her glass.
“It is always about him, is it not?” He smiled at her. “We must all make sacrifices for the good of the Reinout House, no?” He pulled, moving her pace from her spot.
She shook her head, pulling away from him.
He grabbed her arms, looking around to make sure no one had noticed. “Please be quiet!” he whispered loudly her.
She continued to pull away from him, but her arms felt as weak and pliable as a weeping willow’s. “Let me go.”
“If I let you go, you will fall,” he whispered. “I am sorry about this, but I will not hurt you. You can trust me.”
Soli twisted her arms, writhing underneath his grip. “Let me go!” she screamed at him through clenched teeth.
He did, and she stumbled back, knocking into the table behind her. Sweet rolls toppled, and their two glasses fell onto the carpeted floor, rolling underneath.
Little black spots trickled into her vision. “Don’t touch me!”
“I will not; I promise.” His hand ventured out to take hers, with a sweet, concerned smile was on his face. “I never would.”
She pulled her hand away from his, and she brought it down onto his face, backhanding him in the right eye. She fell back again, stumbling against the table.
He stepped away from her, holding his hand to his own face. His pride looked more wounded than the eye.
She turned. Taking a labored breath, she held herself aloft again the table. With the last of her strength, she forced her legs to move, and she ran as fast as she could away from Etienne Reinout.
Chapter 65
Guy and Val were starting to run out of women for their “who’d you rather game” and it had ventured into the ridiculous. Hats, coats, and even food had entered the match, leaving Val and Guy with nothing but disgusted looks and stifled laughs.
Their laughter silenced as a collective gasp erupted through the room; they turned their heads. Randolph saw that all eyes were on Soli and Ety. She was against the table, holding herself up as if injured, while Ety, his cheeks red, held his hand over his right eye. His other was cast outward into the room, looking at all the people staring at him.
All those people immediately began to whisper about him.
Randolph bit his lower lip. “Watch the door,” he said to Guy and Val. He glanced at them just long enough to see them nod.
Soli ran from Ety, stumbling along the edge of a long table, knocking over a few towers of sweets on the way. Ety lowered his hand and straightened his tunic. His cheeks were still flushed.
Randolph pushed through the guests, whose eyes were on Ety and Soli, and their lips were at each other’s ears buzzing with gossip. They didn’t even see Randolph heading through them, and several times he had to push a few guests out of his way with what he referred to as a politely aggressive jostle.
No one fought his pushes, and he was halfway through the room when he felt a hand at his shoulder. He shrugged it off, but it pulled again, so Randolph shrugged again.
Soli slipped out of sight around the doorway into the ballroom.
The one who pulled at him gave up, and, instead, he skipped in front of Randolph, standing still. He had to have been an islander: tanned, olive skin and pure lambent eyes marked him as a pureblood Venari. It was a rare sight to see at the Reinout manor—even during the Jubilee.
Randolph stopped, and the man put his slender fingers to Randolph’s chest, like one might playfully do with an intimate friend.
“Move,” said Randolph.
“Now, now, Mr. Big and Burly,” teased the man tapping him twice in rhythm with the Bs. “You can’t just go over there and start a fight.”
Randolph cracked his neck. “Who said I was going to?” Randolph tried to sidestep, but the man kept perfectly in step with him, as if the two were dancing.
“Really?” he scoffed. “A pretty lady slaps a lord, and you tell me you’re not rushing over to play hero?”
“She hit him?” Randolph stepped to the side again, but the man wouldn’t let him by—at least not without causing a scene. His eyes flickered to Ety, who was already engrossed in a new conversation as if the altercation had never occurred.
“Yes, she did.” The man smiled. “It was all quite entertaining.”
“Well,” said Randolph, who swatted away the man’s overly familiar fingers. They were as soft as Soli’s. “I’m going after her, not him.”
“So you do wish to play hero?” He laughed, his shoulders rising with each teasing guffaw.
Randolph tried to push by the man, but the stranger wrapped his arm around Randolph’s waist, cuddling up under his chin. “Oh.” The stranger shuddered. “I suppose if you insist.” He squeezed Randolph’s waist.
Randolph jumped back, pulling the man’s arm away from him. His eyes shot around, and a few people around him were watching, their eyebrows raised. “Who the hell are you anyway?” he hissed.
“You didn’t see me earlier?” The man acted wounded. “I saw you. But, then again, it would have been hard to have missed you.”
Randolph had seen him earlier, briefly out of his periphery. He had been distracted by the troupe’s leader though, Miss Debeau. “You’re with the whores?”
“Guilty,” he whispered.
“What are you doing here, then?”
“Well,” his tongue languished. “I am here at a party for people with too much money and repressed desires, and I did come with a group of prostitutes, so I can’t believe I have to spell it out for you.”
Why in the world Irene would have included an invite for a male prostitute at Jae’s party was beyond Randolph. “Oh,” he said.
“But you aren’t one to mind your own business, are you, Mr. Hero?” His fingers insistently danced along Randolph’s chest despite Randolph’s sweeping hand trying to knock them away.
Randolph backed away again, his hands up in a frustrated defense of his torso. “Look, I don’t know what you want with me, but I’m not buying what you’re selling.”
“Oh, I know,” said the Venari with a cruel smile. “I’m just distracting you, and, I must say, you have been very accommodating— like a good boy.”
Chapter 66
All she could think to do was run—to get away. Where she was going, she did not know, but all her brain kept telling her was to run. Although it was only minutes that passed by as she fled, her brain told her she had been running for ten times that long.
Away from the party she went, fleeing up the first flight of stairs she found, and no one stopped her. All around her were people half in her state: staggering from too much wine, slow-minded from the herbs they smoked, and their consciousnesses distracted from flirtations and praise.
At the top of the stairs, away from the party, it was quieter. She knew she had to hide. She couldn’t let Etienne find her, and she swore she heard him, slowly and precisely walking up the steps behind her.
Her body was shaking, and she feared that her hammering heartbeat alone could give her away.
Every step she shuffled along the carpet seemed as loud as the buzzing of a beehive. Every lamp along the wall nearly blinded her, so she walked with her head cast down, her hands out to catch any support around her.
Behind her was the deafening sounds of clinking glasses, steps moving in time with the music, and roaring voices—and it sounded like a battle to her.
A few times she threw her head back, swearing Etienne was behind her.
But no one was.
She was alone, painstakingly roaming through the hall, looking for anywhere to hide. While behind her raged the sounds
of reveling battle, ahead of her were feminine, terrified sobs and whimpers. She froze, uncertain if what she had heard was reality.
A loud smack and a cry broke her doubt. It was followed by another sob. A man was yelling; his voice was hot and fast.
She pressed her back against the wall, closing her eyes and taking another deep breath, but the vertigo wouldn’t leave, and she feared that if she had to walk any further she would be on the floor retching uncontrollably.
She couldn’t turn around. Etienne was probably waiting for her. Her head told her she couldn’t let him find her. She slid down the wall.
Ahead was sobs and smacks, and she didn’t know what was there, but she decided to risk it over Etienne finding her. She reminded herself, through the dizzying haze in her mind, that men only drugged women for one reason—and she would die before she’d let that happen.
Crawling, she crept closer to the sound. It was coming from the solarium. The door, which was left ajar, was opaque glass covered with heavy spirals of iron. Candles housed inside red and yellow glass orbs filled the solarium, and the light caught on the door pulsed almost in tune with Soli’s heart.
Through the opening of the door, Soli poked her head. All the plants inside looked warped from the light, almost sickly in her drugged haze, and the dirt they were nestled in looked bloodied and foul. As she pulled her body through the door the sobs started anew with a deafening vigor, and Soli swore that the rubicund dirt was throbbing in response. Her head told her it was filled with writhing vermin just below the surface of the dirt, trying to crawl out.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her mouth was filling with acrid spit, and she pressed her palm against her lips. Her nose flared with her quick, shallow breaths.
The man screamed again, and Soli recognized his voice—it was Jae. Her heart thrashed, keeping no beat. She couldn’t let Jae find her. Gods above, he was the last man who could. Either he would kill her or make her wish for death.