Josiah's Bride

by Jory Strong

  I'll buy new things in the warren. I'll ask for a tour of the marketplace and use what coin I have left to buy dresses, maybe jeans and tops if Josiah doesn't object.

  With Josiah there, commenting on the outfits, she wouldn't have to worry about his being ashamed of the way she looked.

  It would be okay. He wouldn't regret choosing her.

  Ella gently stroked a deep orange petal. "I don't think I've ever seen the flowers look so beautiful."

  Victoria and their mother both had green thumbs. They could make anything grow, while her ministrations had the opposite effect.

  For all her ability to heal, she wasn't good with plants, maybe because she fussed too much over them, always checking their soil. Or maybe it was because she was better at dealing with them after they'd been harvested for her concoctions.

  Her sister removed a dead leaf from one of the plants and thrust it toward Ella. "Here."

  Ella held out her hand and Victoria dropped the dead leaf along with others she'd been holding onto Ella's palm.

  "Are you afraid?" Victoria asked.

  "No."

  "I would be."

  "No you wouldn't."

  A burn crept up Ella's throat at remembering Victoria as a child. Back then, when their father had insisted on taking both of his daughters to the marketplace, it had been her responsibility to watch her sister while he worked in the stall.

  Victoria had chased pigeons as a toddler. She'd explored merchant stalls without worrying that the occupants might object to her trespassing. Been attracted to shiny, pretty things and drawn by beautiful fabrics, even then.

  At home, she'd followed behind Ella in the garden, chortled with glee when a seed sprouted or a flower blossomed. She'd been daring when it came to doing battle with the hens for their eggs. She'd fearlessly pluck something from the garden or snatch one of their mother's flowers and offer it to Ella.

  Ella wished their relationship hadn't become what it was. She wished that they'd maintained that early closeness and love.

  There was no one moment when everything had changed. It had happened as Victoria grew up and grew more beautiful.

  She'd been indulged, spoiled. And I'm as much to blame as Mother and Father, Ella admitted. Because the times I gave Victoria attention were the times they smiled approvingly at me.

  She closed her hand around the dead leaves.

  Victoria cut the stems of several flowers. "Mother is making your favorite meal tonight. She wanted flowers for the table."

  Warmth, like something that would come with a hug, filled Ella's chest.

  Victoria selected another flower and cut its stem. "Tomorrow the flowers for the dinner table can go with you into the warrens as a bouquet. I'll add a few fresh flowers from my boxes."

  Fearing a hug might drive her sister's friendliness into retreat, Ella made do with saying, "Thank you,"

  They entered the house together. In the kitchen, their mother said, "Did you pay for his silence?"

  "There was no need. Slater didn't ask why she was being put out into the warrens, he assumed—"

  "Like mother, like daughter."

  Ella stopped in the middle of the front room, acutely aware of Victoria stopping next to her.

  "The past is the past, Patricia."

  "His cousin, Alisha, and I were best friends. He's got as many connections in Wilton as he does here. He'll have heard the rumors—"

  "What of it?"

  "If the warlord finds out—"

  "Why would he?"

  "You know you're not the only one he deals with in the city. Antonio Varga would love to see you destroyed. You called him a cheat and a fraud. And now you're negotiating with his supplier. If Varga finds out the warlord arranged for a marriage to your daughter, and you gave him your wife's bastard instead—"

  "Enough, Patricia! Enough!"

  Ella's breath was blocked by the sob in her throat. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, her body icy cold and trembling.

  "He'll expect Victoria. Of course he'd want her," her mother said in a voice choked with fear.

  Ella locked her knees to keep from sinking to the floor. She blinked rapidly, trying to prevent the tears from falling.

  This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be.

  "Hush now," her father murmured. "Nothing is going to happen to Victoria. It's my name that's on Ella's citizenship paperwork and she's named after me. The warlord's man didn't say Victoria. He said daughter."

  "As if you had only one. Has Josiah seen Victoria?"

  "Once, maybe twice. He's seen Ella more often, been in the same room with her."

  "You're positive he believes Ella is your daughter?"

  "Not positive. The first time she was seen in the workshop by one of his men, I claimed she as an indentured servant. That man was killed weeks after seeing her and that was years ago. She was eleven or twelve, not important enough to mention to the warlord." Their father's voice dipped. "Tomorrow, Ella will be Josiah's bride and everyone will assume he chose her. He sent one of his men instead of making the arrangements himself. I don't think his pride will allow him to admit the mistake publically."

  Voice still shaking, their mother said, "But you can't be sure."

  "No. I can't be."

  Ella spun and fled through the front door. She gulped air, trying to force the sob back into her chest but it escaped.

  Her throat and face burned. Tears streamed across her cheeks and dripped onto the dull brown dress.

  He didn't ask for me. He didn't want me. Getting married isn't even important enough for Josiah to make the arrangements himself.

  In less than a minute the hope and fantasy, the anticipation that had lifted her up and carried her through the day shattered, becoming a bleak fall and a thousand cuts to her heart and soul.

  Instinct took her around the house and toward the workshop. She stopped in front of the pigeon coop, her hands grasping its wire front.

  Her eyes sought out the bird that had landed in the marketplace. This couldn't be happening. It was just a cruel trick.

  She hadn't mistaken the desire in Josiah's eyes. He'd looked at her the way a man looked at a woman he wanted in his bed.

  But that doesn't mean I'm anything special. He'd be just as happy with Victoria, maybe happier.

  Cold shivers raced outward from the deepest recesses of her heart and soul. She closed her eyes, touched her forehead to the cool cage wire.

  The warlord arranged for a marriage to your daughter and you gave him your wife's bastard instead.

  Another sob escaped. She searched her earliest memories for mention of the man who might have gotten her mother pregnant, but there was nothing.

  She'd been four when Victoria was born. She'd been fourteen when she learned that her mother's parents were alive and lived in Wilton.

  It seemed likely that she was the cause of the estrangement between them and her mother. And that it was only Victoria's beauty, and the possibility that it might lead to a rise in social status, that ended the estrangement.

  "First do no harm," Ella whispered. She'd found those words in an old medical book and each time an ailment was presented, she'd thought of that doctrine.

  She'd always tried to live by that principle. But her very birth had caused harm.

  No wonder she had no memories of her mother brushing her hair. No wonder only her sister accompanied their mother to Wilton. No wonder all her mother's dreams centered around Victoria.

  Victoria could move upward in society, leaving the boroughs and the districts close to the wall behind. But marriage to a man in the boroughs, one who knew of and used a tunnel into the warrens, meant their mother was forever trapped.

  Maybe the man who'd gotten her pregnant had been of higher status. That could be the reason why her mother had carried to term, because she'd thought he'd ultimately marry her and had waited until it was too late to seek out herbs to safely miscarry.

  It could explain how she'd met the man Ella thought
of as Father. Maybe she'd snuck into Borough Y, sought out the apothecary only to have him convince her that marriage to him was a better option.

  A sharp beak pecking Ella's fingers had her opening her eyes. One of the pigeons with white-tipped wings was on the perch in front of her hands.

  The bird pecked her fingers again, hoping for a treat. It wasn't the pigeon that had landed in the marketplace. That bird was in the seed pan, happily eating with six other pigeons.

  Drawing a shaky breath, Ella's gaze settled on a dark gray bird with heavy black banding on its wings. It was one of the warlord's birds. Release it and it would fly home.

  The arrival of the bird itself served as a call to meet in the tunnel or at either end. But an actual message could be sent.

  Care had to be taken not to be seen releasing a bird with a holder on its leg. Care had to be taken in crafting the message, so that if it fell into the hands of the Peace Force it wouldn't get either sender or recipient in trouble.

  She could send a message to the warlord. She could bare a small part of her heart. She could tell Josiah she wanted to be his bride but wanted him to know that despite what the citizenship papers said, she wasn't her father's true daughter.

  It'd be Josiah's choice then. If she sent the pigeon now, there'd be time for him to respond.

  But what would that mean for the man she'd always called Father? Would Josiah believe that her father had tried to cheat him and retaliate? Would he insist on Victoria?

  Ella's throat locked. Her heart thudded heavily.

  She couldn't take the chance that her father would be hurt. She couldn't hurt her mother by having her dreams for Victoria crushed.

  And she couldn't hurt herself. She wanted to marry Josiah.

  But if he saw her and rejected her, demanded Victoria… If he found out that she wasn't truly her father's daughter after the fact…

  Tiny shivers became a harder trembling. He won't.

  Her father was right. She remembered that soldier and that day, and her father's negligent comment that she was a servant.

  It'd hurt. She could remember the sharp pain of it, though afterward, when he'd explained he'd done it for her safety, that pain had become treasured warmth.

  She pulled her hands from the pigeon coop wire and used the sleeve of her dress to wipe away the tears.

  Turning toward the house, she took a deep breath and stood taller. First do no harm.

  She'd go inside as if she hadn't overheard her parents' conversation. She wouldn't confront them or ask questions that would dredge up painful memories, not when Victoria needed to be the one to remain in the city. Only Victoria could accomplish the things their mother hadn't been able to because she'd gotten pregnant and given birth rather than abort.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6

  Time to leave.

  Despite the warmth in the house, goose bumps pebbled Ella's bare skin as she stood in front of her closet. Her room was empty except for the small pile of underthings and six bottles of cheap tinctures on her bed, the four dresses in her closet, and beneath them, three pairs of shoes.

  She reached out, fisted the blue dress the widow Katherine had made beautiful, ache squeezing her heart and her eyes stinging though she refused to cry. The dress next to the one that would make her look like a bride was deep green, the color hiding the few stains.

  If Josiah had meant to marry Victoria, but been careless in his wording, if he was going to turn her away, it would be easier wearing a different dress. One that didn't reflect her desire to be his wife, that didn't reveal the truth in her heart and didn't represent her hope.

  But if he accepted her as his bride, if he came to love her, if she was the one he expected, she'd forever regret not going to him in the dress she'd had altered with thoughts of getting married.

  Her heart heavy, Ella took the blue dress off the hanger and put it on.

  Her fingers fumbled at first with the buttons, but with each one of them, hope strengthened and she felt more beautiful. She'd never be as beautiful as Victoria or their mother, but the warlord had looked at her with naked heat in his eyes.

  She hadn't imagined that. Whatever else might be true, he did want her.

  A future could be built on desire. Couldn't it?

  Her mother entered the room carrying a satchel and Ella was reminded that a future could be built on less. For the first time in her life, she thought her mother's face looked worn. She thought her eyes held a hint of guilt.

  It's okay, she wanted to tell her mother. But the words were blocked by a thick knot of pain caught in her throat. By the questions she'd never have answers to, or the courage to ask.

  Did her mother love her even a little bit?

  Or would she always be to blame for her mother ending up married to a man in the boroughs? Forever trapped against the wall?

  "Good, you're dressed," her mother said, stopping next to the bed and scooping up the pile of underthings and bottles. She stuffed them into the satchel then moved to the closet and pressed the satchel into Ella's hands. "Your father and I are ready to leave."

  Her mother left and Ella slipped on blue shoes to match the dress, put the other two pairs of shoes into the satchel, followed by the dresses.

  A final glance around the room and she stepped out into the hallway. Her father waited at the front door.

  She'd accompanied him on house calls for most of the day. They'd gone deep into Borough X, where he'd rarely allowed her to accompany him.

  He'd bragged about her skills when they'd stopped at a marketplace and then later, when they'd bought untaxed ingredients smuggled in from the warrens. And though he hadn't said anything to her, it'd slowly occurred to her that he was establishing her value, in case she needed to run from Josiah and seek safe haven. Diego's territory was on the other side of the wall in Borough X and he was a warlord feared by other warlords.

  Like her mother's face, her father's looked worn. His shoulders were hunched forward, as if burdened by the weight of guilt.

  When she reached him, she said to him what she couldn't say to her mother. "It's all right, my going into the warrens."

  He took the satchel from her. "Your mother and sister are outside."

  She fisted her hands rather than rub damp palms over her dress. "Do I look okay?" she asked, regretting the absence of a mirror in her room.

  "You make a beautiful bride." Her father's throat moved up and down as he swallowed once, twice, a third time. "The warlord won't be able to take his eyes off you."

  He opened the door and they left the house. Victoria and their mother stood on the porch, speaking in low voices.

  Victoria turned toward Ella, closed the distance between them. "I made this for you last night."

  She unfolded the cloth in her hands. It was a long, wide scarf of the same deep blue as Ella's dress, though the fabric was of a much higher quality.

  Embroidered at the corners were red and light blue flowers to match those the widow Katherine had put on Ella's dress to hide the tears and stains.

  Victoria shook out the scarf. Used it to cover Ella's head and mask her lower face so that only her eyes and a swath of skin were visible. "This will work as a bridal veil."

  And delay the moment when the warlord knows which sister he's been given, Ella thought, but said, "Thank you."

  She trailed her fingertips over the beautiful flowers. Felt the swell of tears when Victoria pulled her into a hug, then a chill when her sister's arms dropped away and their mother said, "Let's go. Let's get this over with."

  Victoria went into house. At the road, Ella sent a backward glance toward the workshop and the pigeons that had been her responsibility since she was a small girl.

  Her throat locked. Her father said, "Your things can be retrieved at any time." Meaning they were already in the tunnel.

  She wondered if the warlord would have his men search her belongings. If he would confiscate her coins and anything that could be converted to money.

&
nbsp; Without funds, she couldn't arrange for the return of her city ID card or a pass allowing her back into the city, though as long as she possessed her citizenship papers, return was possible if she could afford the fees and bribes and the risk of attracting Merati's interest.

  Her mother chose the route. One that avoided the marketplace and the streets with the greatest hustle and bustle.

  It felt like a walk of shame and Ella wondered if this was what it had been like for her pregnant mother. If her parents had accompanied her to the borough on her wedding day, or sent her alone.

  They reached a gate manned by two guards. Her father presented the passes that would allow them out of the city.

  A guard with a square face and a short, fat mustache patted her father down. Her citizenship papers were removed from her father's jacket pocket, along with coins left there to expedite their exit and to ensure the guards' hands didn't linger on her mother or her.

  The guard's eyes flicked to her, his expression holding disgust. "Don't blame you for ridding yourself of her."

  He returned the passes, the certificate of live birth and citizenship registration, checked the satchel and collected the tax for its contents. The second guard, a short man with sweat stains under his arms, leered at Ella but patted her down quickly. Then moved to her mother and did the same.

  The search done, the square-faced guard who'd taken the coins unlocked and opened the gate. Ella took a deep, shaky breath. This was it.

  She traced one of the embroidered flowers on the scarf. When it was pulled away, and her face was revealed, would the warlord think he'd been cheated? Would he retaliate? Demand Victoria?

  It's too late now.

  She stepped into the warrens, her heart beating against the cage of her ribs.

  No one wearing Josiah's colors was waiting.

  Behind them, the gate closed with a metallic ring.

  Her father grasped her mother's hand. "I know the way."

  Each step took Ella farther from the world she'd been born into. A hundred pairs of eyes were focused on her, though she saw only a dozen people, most either very old or very young.