By a Thread

by Nyna Queen

  She crossed her arms again. “Do you even know already if you want to go to that college? I mean it’s—what?—three years until you have to apply, right?”

  Josy’s eyes turned huge. “It’s the biggest honor to be accepted there. It’s the ivy-league. They provide the most advanced education in medicinal arts there is at the moment and they only take the best of the best. Girls would murder for a chance to be accepted there.”

  It sounded like she was reciting an advertising brochure she’d learned by heart. And it wasn’t an answer to Alex’s question either.

  “I’m sure it’s a great place and all,” Alex said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the best place for you.”

  “It’s the best there is!” Josy protested, as if even saying something like this was blasphemous. “And everybody expects me to go there, anyway.”

  She flinched, and her gaze dropped to her feet again. Which was exactly what Alex had thought. And which made her wonder if “everybody” had ever thought of asking her what she actually wanted. The kid was fourteen, for cryin’ out loud, she shouldn’t even be thinking about something like college right now.

  “You still haven’t chosen anything!” Josy pointed out with a slightly accusing note in her voice, clearly wanting to change the topic. Which brought them right back to the arduous task at hand.

  Alex hid a grimace. “Oh, well … I thought,” she grabbed the first thing in reach, “perhaps one of these?”

  It turned out to be some puffy blue shirt that looked as if a sewing machine had choked on the fabric and then vomited it all out again.

  Josy delicately wrinkled her nose. “You must be kidding.”

  She was? “I am?”

  The freaking thing was shockingly ugly, true, but then again, the same could be said about almost every piece this shop had to offer. “What’s wrong with this?”

  The girl looked at her as if this was the most silly question that had ever been asked since clothing had become state-of-the-art. “The color, for instance.”

  “What about it? It’s blue.”

  “Its powder blue,” Josy corrected.

  When Alex just stared at her, she shook her head and heaved a sigh. “You’re a wintry type. This color will make you look pale. Not to mention that the cut is rather befitting someone who is at least ten years older than you are.” She paused, inspected the blouse. “Make that twenty.”

  She fluffed her hair, looking honestly baffled. “You really don’t know anything about fashion, do you?”

  Alex shrugged, feeling slightly defensive. Why would she even care if this snotty little trueborn princess thought she lacked taste?

  “Fashion has never played a big role in my life. I grew up with two elder brothers—that leaves a mark. I mostly dressed in their clothes, played with their toys—honestly, I didn’t even realize there was a big difference until I got my first period.”

  Josy made a shocked little noise. “That sounds horrible.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t all bad.” A little grin stole over Alex’s face. “We spent a lot of time outside, brawling, stick-fighting, mud-bathing … When my sire got them a tutor for fencing and martial arts I was even allowed to join in their training.”

  “Is that how you got so good with knives?” Max asked, clearly more interested in the gory details than in clothes and female menstruation cycles.

  “It certainly played a role.”

  Truth to be told, it had been nothing but the mere foundation. The real skill she’d acquired while living on the streets, struggling to survive every day—that’s when you learned to fight or died.

  But that was nothing she needed to tell the kids.

  “How about this one?” Josy held up a waist-high, knee-long black skirt, but Alex shook her head.

  “I don’t do skirts.”

  “Why not?”

  First of all, they showed too much leg, and secondly, she wouldn’t be able to run for her life if she wore such a tight, stiff thing. Which, she guessed, was the whole purpose of making girls wear these things in the first place. “Just don’t like em, I suppose.”

  Josy sighed. “You’re making it really hard for me, you know?” She vanished in another aisle and reappeared a moment later with her hands full of clothes, spreading them on a flat shelf.

  “Do you think I could learn it, too? To fight, I mean. Like you.”

  The words came out in such a rush, it took Alex a second to process them.

  Josy blushed and her eyes dropped to her hands.

  “That was a stupid thought,” she mumbled, her fingers fiddling with the button of a jacket.

  Oh yes, it definitely was, and yet …

  Two days ago, Alex would have laughed at the idea of this delicate flower wanting to learn to wield anything but a sewing needle, but after what had happened to them, was it really such a surprise she wanted to learn how to defend herself? She must have felt helpless the whole time.

  “I don’t know about fighting like me, but, actually I think every girl should know a thing or two in basic self-defense.”

  Surprise—about not being ridiculed for her idea—followed by curiosity. Josy licked her lips. “I’m not sure I could, though … you know …” She touched her own throat and shuddered.

  Alex chuckled. “Ah, sugar, you don’t have to slit a man’s throat to make him back off. There are a lot of other effective ways to make the other gender wince, and most of them don’t even require a knife.”

  Circling the girl, Alex gave her a quick once over. “You’re thin and light. Most opponents—especially men—will likely be heavier and stronger, but you’ll be faster. Do you dance?”

  “A lot.”

  “Excellent. Dancers usually have a fair balance and balance is half the battle. You’re lacking in muscle, but apart from that I don’t see a reason why you shouldn’t be able to learn.”

  A spark of excitement flared in Josy’s eyes before the dampeners went back on. She sighed and hung something back to a rack without looking at Alex.

  “My grandmother would never approve of me taking lessons in self-defense.” She deposited a blazer in Alex’s arms. “She’ll say it doesn’t befit a lady to engage in such unruly conduct.”

  That woman really seemed to be one snarly old bitch.

  “Doesn’t it, huh?” Alex cocked an eyebrow. “And what do they instruct you to do, when the boys sneak their hands under your virtuous little lady-skirts?”

  Josy’s eyes became wide. “No real gentleman would do such a thing!”

  Ah, that innocence …

  “Sugar, believe me, boys are boys, no matter how titled or pureblooded. And there will come a time when nothing will stop those hands from going all octopussy on you.” She wiggled her fingers in a meaningful way.

  It took the girl a moment to swallow that bit of information. When she did, she blushed so deeply you’d think she’d received a heavy sunburn. She piled more clothes into Alex’s arms and frowned. “Is that why you don’t like skirts?”

  Biting the inside of her cheek, Alex snatched the last item out of Josy’s hands and fled into the changing rooms, before she could burst out laughing and ruin the little spark of confidence the girl had reclaimed during their little talk. Ah, she really could be one amusing little thing, especially when she didn’t intend to be.

  Alex sobered when she stared at the selection of clothes Josy had found for her. Sighed. Time for a different kind of battlefield.

  Finally finished dressing, Alex slipped out of the changing room and hesitantly stepped in front of the gilded full-length mirror in the changing area.

  A stranger was looking back at her. A soft, flowing jumpsuit of deep petrol complete with a thin black belt, hugged her body, stressing her long legs. A simple formfitting black blazer covered her bare arms. She looked classy and elegant and nothing like herself.

  Josy and Max appeared at her sides—and stared, mouths gaping open.

  Josy's eyes traveled down her whole length, her eye
s wide with an almost shocked expression.

  “You look—”

  “Different?” Alex offered. “Ridiculous? Tarted up?”

  “Beautiful,” Max said in a hushed voice. “Like a lady.”

  Alex reached over and tickled his neck. “I think all that orange juice you had for breakfast got to your head. Really, how much did you guzzle down, a liter?”

  She waited for Josy to make a sniffy remark, but the girl just kept staring at her with big eyes. Suddenly she felt strangely naked in these clothes, under their observant eyes. She fought to urge to cover herself, wishing they would mock her instead of looking at her like this. It wasn’t like she couldn't see where they were coming from. From her sire, she had inherited the traits that were so common for the features of the trueborn aristo families: the clear, pale skin, the high cheekbones, the big eyes, the fine eyebrows …

  When she looked at herself now, in these fancy clothes inside this noble changing area, it was like looking at the ghost of something that could have been hers, but never would. Was this the woman she would have been if her sire hadn’t died? If she hadn’t been born what she was?

  Her throat felt too tight all of a sudden, and she swallowed.

  “Well, don’t get used to it,” she muttered, “because this is the only time you’ll see me in something like this.”

  She turned away from the mirror. “Alright. Shall we pay then?”

  “Wait!” Josy put her hands to her hips. “You still need a pair of shoes!”

  Alex glared down at the tips of her worn-out boots poking out from under the seams of her pant legs. Granted, they looked a bit unfitting, but …

  “Is that really necessary?” Just imagining another hour of shopping, and she would be ready for the nut-house.

  Josy straightened her back with all the dignity of a young lady who wouldn’t tolerate any backtalk. “Absolutely.”

  Alex and Max exchanged a look and groaned in unison.

  ALEX flopped down on her bed and moaned.

  Sweet Jester, she hurt! Her back, her legs, her feet …

  Going on a shopping trip with Josepha Dubois-Léclaire was about as exhausting as a double shift at the Jester’s Inn.

  Oh, well. Almost.

  Just how could a young non-shaper girl have that much freaking energy?

  After paying for her clothes it had taken them at least another half an hour to agree on a pair of shoes, she and Josy could both comfortably live with. It wasn’t the pair of sketchers Alex would have preferred, but she had to admit, the black pair of soft leather ankle boots with the little heel was without a doubt the finest piece of footwear she’d ever possessed. And probably ever would. Still …

  She curled her toes and whimpered. She’d never understood women’s fascination with shopping and today’s experience hadn’t exactly scored it any brownie points.

  Alex pressed her face into the pillow—and cringed when she caught a whiff of Darken’s scent on the fabric.

  Great! Darken was definitely the last thing she wanted to think about right now—never again, if that could somehow be arranged.

  But last night … yes, last night …

  Well, she supposed she’d been a good fuck when he’d been in dire need, but not good enough for a second glance in the morning when—

  Wait! Stop right there! No guilt. No strings attached, remember?

  He had been at the limit of his control and she had been more than aware of it when she’d decided to give him what he needed. He hadn’t asked her for it. In fact, he had told her point blank to leave. Repeatedly. But she had been too stubborn and too wanton to comply.

  It was hardly fair on her part now to blame him for … Yeah, for what exactly?

  That he didn’t fall all over himself to declare his undying love for her? Like hell!

  Then what? That he didn’t tell her how breathtakingly good it had been?

  Well, it had been okay. Oh, alright, more than okay. Actually, it had been quite good. Extremely good, in fact. Likely somewhere among her top three. Oh fine, alright, it had probably been the best fucking sex she’d ever experienced. But that was hardly the point.

  The point was that she’d read something into this whole … thing, that simply wasn’t there. This morning she’d thought she’d seen something in his eyes, something warm and caring, but in hindsight, it must have been the sunlight and her hormone-hyped imagination.

  So they’d shared a night of mind-blowing, scorching sex. What of it? No need to get all woozy just because he’d seen her panties.

  It was done. A one-time thing. End of story.

  With a sigh she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the emotional turmoil inside her.

  SHE didn’t know how long she’d been lying there, staring blankly into space, when there was a faint, almost reluctant knock on the door.

  Alex groaned. Couldn’t she get a single moment of peace?

  Her threads brushed the underside of the door and she closed her eyes. Well, at least it wasn’t Darken.

  With a sigh, she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Come on in. It’s open.”

  A moment nothing happened. Then the door opened a crack and Josy shyly poked her head into the room.

  The girl was wearing a thick terrycloth bathrobe—interestingly enough her room seemed to have been equipped with such—and her dark brown hair, still moist from the shower she’d taken, was spilling down her shoulders to her waist in a wild wave, already starting to curl madly at the tips.

  When she didn’t move or say anything, Alex cocked an eyebrow. “It’s either in or out, sugar.”

  Josy flinched a little, but then stepped in and closed the door behind her, although she lingered close to it like a little mouse staying in reach of her hidey-hole in case the cat decided it was hungry. Her eyes flickered through the room, looking at everything but Alex, while her left hand nervously twiddled with a strand of her hair. One moment, her shoulders squared, then drooped in the next, just to square again a moment later. Someone was clearly split over something.

  Alex waited, watching her apparent inner struggle with guarded amusement.

  Finally, the girl took a deep breath. Here it comes!

  “I was just wondering … would you mind combing out my hair?” With a timid smile, Josy held up a wooden brush.

  Oookay, of all possible things, Alex hadn’t expected this one. Trying to gloss over her surprise, she slid from the bed and patted the cushion of the chair in front of the vanity table. “Surlio.”

  With a wary glance—almost as if expecting to be thrown out any moment—the girl slunk over on her coltish legs and offered Alex the brush. Alex took it from her and she slipped into the chair, bare feet dangling a few inches above the thick blue carpet.

  Whatever this was about, Alex had the strong feeling it was yet to come. The brush was just a smokescreen for something that turned the girl into a nervy bundle. And that, in turn, made Alex nervous. Yet she leashed her impatience. Apparently, it had taken the kid some guts to work up the courage to come over, and she didn’t want to break that bit of confidence by pushing her.

  Carefully, Alex pulled the thick mane of hair over the back of the chair, spilling it out like a fan of dark silk. It felt soft and fluffy beneath her fingers, like puppy fuzz. The scent of her soap floated up: lilies and peonies, slightly sweet and youthful, whispering of a playful garden full of wildflowers and sunshine.

  Alex took her time with the brush, savoring each stroke. It felt like she’d been granted a special privilege, something almost intimate that was usually reserved for her mother and, maybe, her grandmother.

  While being grateful for the gesture, it was also a painful reminder of what she would never have. An image born from regret blossomed in her mind: of her own sweet little baby girl; of the precious few years in which she’d have the duty and the privilege of combing out her little darling’s hair. A daily ritual between a mother and a daughter and then, later, a won
derful exception.

  The image was so bittersweet, her throat went tight from sudden, unexpected pain. For she knew it was an image that, like so many others, would never come true.

  What kind of life would she be able to offer a child? A constant dance on the edge of society. Hunted. Shunned. No friends, no education, always on the brink of poverty.

  There was no way she would condemn a child to a life like her own. She wasn’t that egoistic.

  No, there was no future for her with a happy family in a house full of children, laughter, and mischief. Shapers simply weren’t family material. Period.

  “Do you hate my uncle?”

  Josy’s sudden question startled Alex enough that she paused in her combing for a second. She took it up again quickly, but she was pretty sure the break had been noted.

  “Why are you asking that?” Alex asked, trying to sound casual.

  The girl shrugged, peering slightly over her shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s just—adults are sometimes hard to figure out.”

  Oh, were they? “In what way?”

  In a silver vase on the vanity table, Alex saw the reflection of Josy’s frown. “Like—you’re always yelling at each other. And sometimes you look like you want to strangle each other.” Her shoulder moved again. “Sometimes between a man and a woman that means that they hate each other. Sometimes it means that they like each other very much.”

  A statement that held an unmistakable question. And, ah, that question …

  Sweet, sweet, innocent little Josy. Not so innocent, after all. And certainly, no fool. The kid perceived a lot more than was good for any of them.

  Alex chose her next words very carefully. “Your uncle and I, we are both not used to working in a team. So we edge on each other a lot. We’re still trying to work it all out. But we don’t hate each other.”

  Josy was quiet for a moment and Alex wished she could read what was going on behind her forehead. Was that how parenting felt? Saying things and never knowing how they reached the other side?