Josiah's Bride

by Jory Strong

  She blinked away fresh tears. Chided her foolish heart for prompting her to ask that question and expect a different answer.

  Her father cleared his throat. "Along with some of your clothes, you'll need to take a few jars of medicine through the gate. Otherwise it would create suspicion."

  "I'll take some of the cheaper potions so the tax won't be too high."

  Her father nodded. His shoulders slumped forward as if he already felt the added burden of work that her leaving would mean. He'd have to take on the duties of running the marketplace stall.

  "Father, as a favor to me, will you continue to give Jon the haul work?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you." Maybe it would lead to him giving Jon more work, even tending the stall for short periods of time. "He's trustworthy and a good worker."

  Her father opened the black leather bag he used when he made house calls, checked its contents, adding several packets of herbs before snapping it shut. If not for the tunnel, he might have moved upward in society.

  He'd trained a dozen men who'd gone on to become doctors. Once or twice, he'd called upon those men, not because he couldn't treat the patients but because he hadn't dared.

  Real talent always gained the attention of the elite.

  "I'll see you at the noon meal," he said, and left.

  Ella folded the blue dress and placed it in a small satchel along with the medicines. She took a second satchel and left, locking the workshop door behind her.

  A guilty glance toward the kitchen window was followed by a sigh of relief when she didn't see her mother. She went to the garden and selected four small cantaloupes.

  She placed them in the empty satchel, checked the weight and determined she could carry more. Eight ears of corn followed the cantaloupes into the bag and then she hurried from the yard.

  Jon and his sons were at a butcher stall. It smelled of death and herbs burned in an effort to deter flies, though dozens of them swarmed and buzzed around the carcasses.

  The twins were unloading a cage of rabbits with black, sad eyes. Jon was hanging the last slab of beef, his forearms smeared with blood.

  The butcher, a thin-faced man with large ears, sharpened a knife, the ring of metal against metal announcing he was ready for business.

  Jon rinsed his arms in a barrel at the back of the stall, shook them afterward and sent a rain of water to the ground. He wiped his hands on black denim jeans and waited patiently.

  The butcher finished his ritual knife sharpening. He pointed the blade at one of the cages containing rabbits. "Have your boys each grab one. If you've got other business, the rabbits can drain here for a spell."

  "Bryan. Ryan."

  The boys opened the cage. One grabbed a brown rabbit, the other a gray.

  Ella turned her back to the scene, blocking the sight of the killing but not the sound. A moment later Jon joined her. "Did you need work done?"

  Her heart sped a little faster with nervousness. Her grip on the satchel handles tightened. The news would spread, and if tomorrow arrived and Josiah changed his mind about wanting her for his bride…

  She glanced away from Jon. "My father has arranged a marriage. I'll be leaving the borough."

  He cupped her shoulder. "The man you're marrying is lucky. I hope he knows that. You're a good person, Ella."

  She smiled, the warmth brought by Jon's sentiments becoming a sinuous heat at remembering the smoldering glances Josiah had sent in her direction.

  It was going to be okay. He wouldn't change his mind.

  "You'll continue to get the haul work," she said, the boys joining them. She offered the satchel containing the corn and cantaloupes to Jon. "I wanted to give you this, as a thank you for your help."

  He took the satchel and passed it to one of his sons.

  She said, "And I wanted to hire you to do something for me."

  Taking the small brown bottle of flea repellent from the other satchel, she placed it on Jon's open palm. "Once a week should keep the mama cat comfortable."

  She pulled the coins from her pocket. They joined the medicine on his palm. "For however long the bottle lasts."

  His eyes widened at the windfall. His gaze met hers, a hint of desperation warring with his pride. She closed his work-roughened hand around the bottle and coins. "I can't be here. This way I won't worry about her."

  He nodded, swallowed hard. "You make sure he treats you well."

  "I think he will." She had to believe that. Josiah had a warren full of women he could have chosen and taken without marriage, but the warlord had chosen her to be his bride.

  She left the marketplace, headed toward the towering wall. She tried to imagine what Josiah was doing on the other side, but couldn't. She had no idea what his day-to-day life was like in the warrens.

  Did he train with his men? Patrol his territory? Did he hold court and judge lawbreakers? Did he oversee the production of the drugs he sold? Did he plan campaigns to expand his territory or prepare for battle against other warlords?

  Was he excited about getting married? Worried that he'd made the wrong choice?

  She pressed her fingertips against her heart. Don't think that.

  The widow Katherine lived in a crowded tenement. The building had once been some kind of showroom, maybe for automobiles.

  From the outside it looked as if it had been built from huge concrete squares, five high and twenty-five across. In the middle, a rounded portion served as the main doorway and still bore a huge H at the top. Where there had once been a line of tall windows along the front, there were now tiny openings set in brick or adobe.

  Ella entered the building and climbed the stairs to the less desirable rooms.

  The hallway above what had once been the showroom was lit by windows at either end. The widow's room was in the middle.

  Ella tapped on the flimsy piece of salvaged metal that served as a door.

  Hacking coughs marked the widow's slow journey to answer the knock.

  "Come in," the widow said, stepping out of the way.

  The room Ella entered was about the same size as her tiny bedroom. A candle was lit, but beneath its flowery scent, the room smelled of sickness.

  "Sit," the widow said, her gaze going to the satchel. "You've brought me something to mend?"

  Ella removed the dress and held it up. "Can you make this less plain and more pretty?"

  The widow cocked her head. "Can I get rid of the pockets?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I can do it. I can take it in at the waist to show off your curves. After that I'll add a pretty flowery pattern that'll draw the eye upward. The stain at the shoulder can be covered by that same pattern and the buttons can be replaced with something fancy. I can get it back to you in three days."

  Ella bit her bottom lip.

  The widow said, "Ah, you need it sooner."

  "For a wedding tomorrow." A telltale flush crept into her cheeks.

  The widow's eyebrows lifted.

  "My wedding," Ella admitted.

  The widow's lips formed a silent oh. Her gaze flicked to Ella's stomach.

  The heat in Ella's face intensified but she didn't tell the widow there was no baby.

  Removing the canister of medicine from the satchel, she set it on the coffee table. "Because there's a rush. Because you'll be putting me ahead of others who are expecting their work to be done. And because I'm asking for miracle."

  "Can you stay?"

  "I need to be home by the midday meal."

  "Let's get to work then."

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5

  Ella returned to the workshop lighthearted. She had a dress, a beautiful dress.

  She went to the table that had been her workstation and, taking the dress from the satchel, unfolded and laid it out.

  She smoothed phantom wrinkles, traced the line of red buttons with her fingertips. They weren't as delicate or fine as the pearly buttons on Victoria's party dress, but they were thread-wrapped, creating flo
wery patterns to match the swatches of material used to turn a plain dress into a wedding dress.

  Reaching the last button, she flushed. Would Josiah undo these buttons as they stood in their bedroom? Or would he watch as she bared herself to him?

  Would he like what he saw? Be disappointed?

  Don't think that!

  She wasn't as beautiful as her sister, would never be as beautiful as Victoria, but the warlord hadn't asked for Victoria. It was her that he'd arranged to marry.

  Her father entered the workshop. He set his black bag on the front table and came to stand next to her. Looking at the dress, he said, "You'll make a beautiful bride."

  The unexpected praise brought tears to her eyes. "I'll make you proud of me."

  He touched the place between her shoulder blades, a brief connection before his hand fell away. "You'll make a place for yourself in the warrens. Josiah will see to your safety."

  She thought she heard guilt in his voice, because he knew the warrens were a violence-filled place and a warlord controlled his territory only for as long as he could defend against challengers. She squeezed his arm, not wanting him to feel bad or regret giving in to the warlord's demands.

  "I'll be okay, Father. I'll be okay."

  "Let's eat," he said.

  The kitchen had been cleaned but they had the house to themselves. Ella used ham from the previous night's meal to make sandwiches.

  They ate, though when they were finished, her father remained sitting, gathering strength for the ordeal ahead. Finally, he stood. "Ready?"

  She rubbed damp hands against the brown dress. "Yes."

  "I'll meet you out front."

  She left the house, stopped on the porch to admire the orange and yellow marigolds.

  A few minutes later he came outside. He was still dressed in khaki work pants, the stains on them attesting to the fact that he wasn't a man of leisure. His white, short-sleeved shirt was slightly wrinkled, and the collar rounded, last year's fashion. He'd added a light brown tie along with a hat the same color. A matching jacket was draped over his forearm, so he could convey that he was a man of some wealth rather than enter the Borough Y Peace Force station appearing impoverished.

  "You'll need this," he said, giving Ella her city ID card.

  She hadn't seen it since renewing her picture two years earlier. The photograph captured her from the shoulders up. It filled the left half of the card and the New San Jose city seal was embossed over it.

  To the right of the picture, her given name had been typed on the heavy, specially produced paper, along with her birthdate. Beneath that was the borough stamp indicating that fees had been paid and permissions granted prior to her birth, entitling her to citizenship.

  The lots and homes grew larger as they moved away from the wall and toward the heart of New San Jose. Tall buildings rose miles in the distance, skyscrapers that had miraculously survived the Final War.

  She'd never been to the center of the city. Had rarely entered the sections of New San Jose not named by the word Borough followed by a letter of the alphabet.

  The Peace Force station was close to the border with Steelton, where salvaged metal was melted and refashioned. By the time they reached it, her stomach was a tight knot and her heart thudded hard and fast.

  It was a white brick building with a hand-watered lawn bordered by a three-foot white brick wall. Set behind the station was a smaller, windowless building that served as a holding area for anyone taken into custody.

  Her father slipped on his jacket. He opened the gate for her and the two of them walked along the white brick pathway to a pair of front doors with shiny brass handles and no locks.

  They entered a foyer with gleaming wooden floors that smelled of lemon-scented polish. The woman rumored to be the borough captain's mistress looked up from behind a desk.

  She wore her red hair piled on top of her head. The sleeveless green dress that bared creamy shoulders and arms would have cost Jon or the widow Katherine more than they would earn in six months.

  Hung on the wall behind her was a framed picture that had probably been reproduced from a salvaged book. It took up most of the space and showed men in short black jackets and snug yellow pants riding horses surrounded by hounds as they hunted a fox.

  From a doorway to the left of the picture, two men emerged dressed in the black uniform with yellow emblem of the Borough Y Peace Force.

  They glanced her way, speculation in their eyes, and heat crawled up her neck. Her father said, "Is Captain Slater available?"

  The woman pursed painted red lips, swept her eyes over Ella. "Your names?"

  "Elliot Rust and his daughter Ella Rust."

  The woman opened a thick ledger on her desk, flipped several pages, found the one she wanted and ran a red-tipped fingernail over its entries. She tapped her nail twice against the heavy paper then stood and left her desk, stopping in the open doorway on the right.

  "The apothecary, Elliot Rust, and his daughter, Ella, request an audience with you, Captain."

  Ella heard no response but the borough captain must have granted his permission, since the woman turned toward them and said, "He'll see you now."

  She and her father entered the captain's office.

  He was wide bodied, his chin and neck creased by rolls of fat. He wore a black suit; the white shirt beneath it had pointed collars and was topped with a yellow bowtie. A black bowler hat with a yellow band sat on his desk. He didn't rise in greeting.

  There were no chairs in front of his desk though there were several against the wall on either side of the doorway. He said, "Elliot, what can I do for you?"

  Ella resisted the urge to rub damp palms against the front of her dress. Her father straightened his brown tie though it wasn't crooked.

  "We're here for Ella's birth registry papers and to arrange for compassionate exit passes."

  The captain's attention shifted, appraising her attractiveness, lingering on her stomach before returning to her father's face. "That's a serious request. A different arrangement could be made."

  Meaning he believed she'd refused to abort and intended to keep the baby. Meaning he was open to a bribe, and for that payment would produce the appropriate paperwork.

  "I wish other arrangements were feasible," her father said with believable regret and pain, sounding like a man ashamed and embarrassed by his daughter's situation. "Three months back we did some trading in the warrens."

  Spies monitored those who left the city to trade in the warrens, but it wasn't unheard of for daughters to slip away and get into trouble.

  Captain Slater's gaze returned to her. His eyes held distaste and the word whore was on his tongue though he said, "I need her ID card."

  Ella pulled it from her pocket, offered it, but he made no move to take it from her. She put it on his desk.

  "Jasmine," he called, and the redheaded woman entered the office. "I need the girl's birth registry papers."

  The woman rumored to be his mistress went to a row of wooden cabinets along the right wall. Minutes later she pulled the certificate of live birth along with the paperwork that entitled Ella to claim citizenship.

  After placing them on the captain's desk, she left the office. He said, "How many passes?"

  "Two. For my wife, Patricia, and myself. For tomorrow."

  From a drawer, the captain pulled two cards and laid them out, caging them with hands flat on the desk.

  Her father took coins from his pocket and created two towers of silver.

  "That covers the borough fees." The captain's hands twitched but he didn't reach for a pen.

  Her father created a third silver tower. It rose higher than the other two.

  Captain Slater lifted the pen and filled out a pass, embossed it with his official seal. He tapped the end of his pen on the desk, and her father added additional silver.

  The borough captain filled out the second pass and pushed both toward the front edge of the desk. Her father collected them, along
with the birth registry papers.

  "Anything she takes with her will be taxed at the gate," Captain Slater said.

  Her father nodded. "Thank you for seeing us today, sir."

  It still felt like a dream that Josiah had picked her to be his wife. A hundred times on the long walk home, Ella opened her mouth to ask her father for details of the meeting between him and the warlord. A hundred times she closed her mouth without saying anything.

  Tomorrow she could get the details from her husband. Tomorrow she'd leave her world for his.

  Ache spread with thoughts of leaving her father, her friends in the marketplace, the pigeons that had been her responsibility since she was nine. But that ache was matched by joy and anticipation.

  She'd miss those she served in the marketplace. She'd miss the workshop and the hours spent there with her father.

  She glanced at him, and then at the jacket pocket containing her citizenship papers. She should be afraid to enter the warrens.

  She wasn't. Josiah would keep her safe.

  But would her heart be safe with him? Would he be faithful to her when any woman in the warren was his for the taking? When plenty of them wouldn't care that he had a wife?

  The racing, fluttering beat of her heart was like a pigeon's wings as it sped away. Why her, when he could have anyone?

  A heated shiver went through her at remembering the desire in his gaze. Marriage was the only way his hands could strip her as his eyes had done. But once he'd had her—

  I'll make him glad he married me.

  They reached the house. Victoria was tending the flowers in the boxes.

  The sunlight caressed her, emphasizing her beauty. "Help me," Victoria said as Ella stepped onto the porch, their father going into the house.

  Stopping next to her sister, Ella felt clunky and drab in the old, formless brown dress. The wedding dress was beautiful but she couldn't wear it every day.

  Her chest tightened at thinking about the clothing she was taking with her into Josiah's warren. It'd be foolish to buy new things now. They'd be taxed at the gate, and if a spy reported she'd purchased them and not taken them with her…

  She shivered. It would make Captain Slater suspect that her father knew of a tunnel.