Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  We do not speak, all the way to the carriage. We ride through the streets in silence. I want to say something—anything—to break the wall that sits between us, but I do not know how to begin. My sister, bless her, says not a word.

  Finally, we reach our quiet street. The carriage draws up to the front door, and we hurry out. The rain has stopped, thank the gods for small favors, but the chill is deepening.

  All of this will freeze, I think to myself idly, then shrug. At least we had a few days for the water to wash clean the streets, and to help put out the last of the fires. I wonder if the aeromancers had anything to do with that, then almost laugh at my own question. Of course they did.

  Lia unlocks the door and we go inside. In the kitchen, I pour wine, and we drink to Napaula and to her son. I offer up a toast for all the men and women, soldiers and elementalists, who died atop the wall and under the Lion's Mouth, and Lia offers up a silent tribute, to her father I assume.

  Lia shivers as she puts her glass down. “I need to get out of these wet clothes,” she says, walking out of the room. I follow her into the hall and up the stairs. She stops in the doorway of her bedroom, her eyes frank and beseeching.

  I step close to her. Lia reaches up and traces the line of my wounding, her fingertip cool against my burning cheek. She shivers, a gesture I choose to interpret as lust, and I lean forward to kiss her. She breaks free and backs into the bedroom, and I follow her inside.

  We move together, tenderly at first, hesitantly, mouths hot against chill skin. She seems distant, her hands and lips languid, lying motionless on the cool sheets. I move against her, urgent, trying to break through the wall that, even now, seems to separate us. Eventually, my efforts are rewarded with a gasp, and Lia's caresses grow rougher, more hurried. Her breathing grows short.

  As her passion grows, our lovemaking changes, until we are clawing at each other like animals. Tears stand in her eyes, from pain or from grief, I do not know. I do not want to hurt her, but she demands it, urging me on to greater depths of abandon, until I surrender myself to her desires and use my nails and teeth, biting and scratching until red marks stand out, livid, on her freckled skin.

  When the flood tide of my climax is past, I hold her, our limbs intertwined. She clutches me, her grip almost painfully tight, then, muscle by muscle, I feel her grow tense, rigid. Soon, she pushes me aside with clumsy hands, and rolls away.

  We lie, side by side, staring at the ceiling. Despite the intensity of my release, I do not feel better. The emptiness I felt at the graveside, pushed back for a time, flows back, like a black tide.

  Lia rises and walks to the basin in the corner. She soaks a cloth in the chill water and rubs it over herself. I see gooseflesh rise on her shoulders and across the welts crisscrossing her back. When she cleans between her legs, she shivers, and gasps.

  "Lia, dear heart, what are you doing?” I ask, rising on my elbows.

  "I want you to go,” she says, simply. “I have already had servants pack up your things. Not that there was much to pack. I will be moving out as well, back to my father's ... my estate. The house will be sold, and that will be that."

  My already-forced smile fossilizes, hardening into a brittle mask. The bed seems to sway beneath me, like a ship's deck in high seas. I force myself to take a long, measured breath. “I don't understand,” I say, not needing my sister's admonition to know I am lying, but speaking the words nonetheless.

  She whirls, the washcloth clenched in one white-knuckled fist. Her eyes blaze, not with lightning, but with emotion, a volatile, swirling mix as bright and hot as the inside of a kiln.

  "Understand? What do you not understand? My father is dead, Kirin! Dead! And you could have saved him!"

  I smile sadly and shake my head. “No, love. I couldn't. He didn't want it. I had to respect his wishes."

  "Had to,” she parrots, her voice mocking. “Because you are so honorable and dedicated to respecting the desires of others, is that it? As you respected the wishes of Lord Garrett? As you respected mine when you put your power inside of me? When you used my blood to keep Napaula alive? Is that the respect you speak of?” She is screaming now, her cheeks flushed.

  I force myself to meet her gaze, facing the mix of anger and shame I see in them. “Nothing good has ever come from my power, Lia. You were right to take me to task for using them. I ... I only wanted you to see I was willing to put aside my own desires and honor your father's. I'm so sorry for what happened. I'd take it back if I could. I'd take back so many things."

  She blinks at me, and I see the bonfire of her emotions dim, like a furnace door closing. Her mouth sets into a grim line, and she nods, once, the gesture mechanical. She bends her head and gives her body one last wipe, then drops the cloth into the basin.

  "If only we could turn back time, but we cannot,” she mutters, her voice as cold as her eyes. She walks to the wardrobe and belts a robe over her nakedness. “I want you out. Now. I will have your things sent to you."

  I sit up, the covers bunched in my lap. “Lia, we can still make this work,” I plead. “What happened ... it's a tragedy, I know, but we will rebuild. We'll come out of this stronger, I know it."

  Liar, my sister whispers. When will you stop saying what you hope will pass and accept that which already has?

  Lia walks to the bedside and reaches out, tentatively. She traces the line of my scar with a trembling hand, then cups my cheek. I place mine atop it, pressing her palm to my face.

  I look into her eyes, and see no trace of the fire that scalded me before. Once, their azure brilliance shone like the summertime sky, warm and vibrant and alive. When she was angry, the light danced there like lightning, and when she smiled, I could bask in their radiance like the sun. Now all I see now is the polar blue of glaciers, hard and impenetrable as armor.

  She shakes her head. “I do not want to do this any more. I want ... I need ... to be alone. Having you here only reminds me of everything I have lost."

  "What about...?” I begin, then stop. What about all I've lost? What about everything you're asking me to give up? I want to say. To scream.

  I leave the words unspoken. No. I can see she has made up her mind. I said I wanted Lia to be more independent, to become her own woman, but I did not want it like this. Be careful what you wish for, my mother often told me. I should have listened.

  I rise from the tangled sheets and gather my scattered clothes. She watches me from the corner of the bed as I get dressed. I feel self-conscious in her gaze, awkward, and I hurry through the process with as much grace as I can muster.

  When I am done, I walk to her side and bend down, breathing in the smell of her, a blend of her perfume and the rain and the musk of our lovemaking. She kisses me, one last, chaste pressing of the lips, then lies down. She rolls over, turning her back to me.

  I move to the door, swaying across a floor made suddenly unstable, like the dizzy platforms of a fun house. I clutch the frame as I pass.

  "Kirin,” Lia says, and I stop. “I have something for you in my writing desk. Top drawer. Your name is on it. Please ... do not open it until you are gone."

  "What is it?” I ask.

  "Just ... do me this favor and open it when you are gone. Please?"

  I nod and walk out. My feet are wooden and clumsy on the stair. Downstairs, I cross to Lia's desk and there, in the top drawer amongst a scattering of old invitations, find a heavy envelope. My name is written on the front in Lia's elegant hand. Something is inside, something hard and angular.

  I take the envelope and turn towards the front door. I fumble it open, not bothering to put on my cloak, and step into the crisp evening air. The carriage waits for me at the curb. I see Yusif peer out through the window. When he sees me, he opens the door and hops down, setting the wooden stairs on the street with his own hands.

  "Where would you like to go, milady?” he asks politely, his eyes curious. He must see my pain; surely all the world can see the blasted wasteland in my eyes. He says noth
ing.

  "Take me to my house,” I reply.

  "But ... it's late, milady. Perhaps we can look over your choices in the morning? The count has an extensive list..."

  "I don't care which one,” I reply. “Whatever the count desires. Just take me away from here."

  "As you wish,” he says, then hops down to speak with the driver. I hear him give an address, then command one of his men to go fetch the factors.

  The smell of the carriage, a mingled aroma of polished wood, fabric, and the farm smell of well-tended horses, evokes a memory: Lia and I, climbing aboard a carriage not so different from this one, on our way to her father's ball. I remember her smiling at me, the fiery orange lines of the naraja illuminating her womanly curves, reflecting from her sky-blue eyes. Remember the look of devilish amusement, and affection, in those eyes; the way her fingertips brushed my flesh, hinting at the rest of the evening's delights.

  I settle back in the deep cushions and run my hand across the seat where Lia sat, just hours ago. I turn and look out the window, craning my face up, until I see Lia's bedroom window.

  I see her, standing behind the leaded glass panes, her hands holding open the curtains. She stares down at me. I cannot be sure through the rain-streaked glass, but it looks as if she is crying. I would like to think she is, anyway; I know I am, my tears stinging my scarred cheek.

  I raise my hand. As soon as I do, she steps back, into the gloom. The curtain drops across the window, as final as the falling of a headsman's axe. Yusif climbs inside and thumps the carriage roof, and we are off.

  I look back, one last time, as the carriage departs the tranquil street. I never thought of this place as home, not until it was too late, and now I shall never see it again. I look at the house. The curtains are still closed across Lia's bedroom window. I settle back, my eyes on the velvet roof of the compartment, and do not look out the window again until I feel the carriage turn onto the main street.

  I look at the envelope still clutched in my fist and slide a finger beneath the flap. The sealing wax cracks with a tiny sound. I tilt it, and a comb drops out, into my palm. It is small, shaped like a butterfly, its cloisonne wings and tortoiseshell teeth gleaming in the wan light. There is a paper inside the envelope, a letter from Lia to her bankers, commanding them to give me a sum of money as well as a line of credit “for the continued maintenance of the bearer, for as long as she shall require it".

  I remember the comb, gleaming in the candlelight, nestled amongst Lia's auburn curls. Remember Lia's warm smile and her blush as I slid her gown from her shoulders. Remember the scrape of its wings against my thigh as she bent to kiss me.

  I rub my thumb across a smudge marring one of the wings, and my body heat coaxes the dried residue of the naraja into warm, orange radiance. A sob wells up in my throat, choking me, and I turn my face away, not wanting Yusif to see.

  The paper relents to my fingers’ pressure, ripping lengthwise. I tear it again, and again, until nothing is left of the note or the envelope but tiny shreds. My sister says nothing; I can sense she is not, for once, appalled at my actions.

  I open the window, admitting a gust of icy wind, and hold out my hand, scattering the fragments into the night. Yusif watches me, his dark eyes solemn. He, too, is silent. I look at the butterfly comb and cock back my fist, ready to throw it into the darkness, but some instinct, some residue of emotion, stays my hand. A moment later, I close the window, then drop the butterfly into my pocket.

  I came to the city to fight the Mor. To revenge myself on them. Now they are gone, broken and retreating, skulking back to the earth that bred them.

  I reach for the hate that has borne me up for so long, that has given me the strength to carry on, and find it missing. There is nothing inside me but an empty hole, as dark and cold as the catacombs beneath Rath's family estate. All my rage, all my hatred and passion and, yes, love, are gone. I am a hollow thing, a woman made of paper and rotted lathing, blowing with whatever chance wind will carry me.

  You kept your promise, my sister whispers, barely loud enough to hear over the creak of the carriage. When it would have been easy to chose death, you chose life instead, and reunited Napaula with her son. That must be worth something.

  I nod, not because I agree but out of some reflex. I sense her, wanting to say more. She remains silent.

  I stare out the window at the cobbled streets, and at the blank facades of the houses passing by. Some things cannot be changed, no matter how much we wish it. Sometimes our most heartfelt desires do not come to pass. And always ... always ... we must take ownership, and responsibility, for the things we have paid for.

  I lie back and close my eyes, surrendering myself to the tide that pulls me, a river winding its way through the unknowable night.

  -The End-

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