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We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire

Page 16

by Joy McCullough


  and give myself a moment

  in which I do not fear

  for my sister’s safety,

  Zahra’s, Emilde’s,

  the other women.

  With only animal eyes upon me,

  no expectations, pressing decisions,

  nothing but the crushing weight

  of living in this world, I am

  only Marguerite.

  But perhaps that is

  most terrifying of all.

  Which is worse:

  to imagine

  I could have

  done something

  and didn’t

  or

  to face

  the crushing truth

  I never

  had a chance.

  A stable boy’s appearance

  reminds me I am never

  only Marguerite.

  Even in this refuge

  there are men, intruders.

  He is small, pimply,

  laughable to think

  he might be a threat

  and yet

  sometimes

  those are the ones

  most worthy of fear.

  Can I help you,

  mademoiselle?

  To stand, display

  my finery and obvious rank,

  or maintain my position,

  Father’s move of power

  to intimidate inferiors.

  Mademoiselle?

  I stumble to my feet displaying

  not so much rank and finery

  as exhaustion, nerves.

  I am a guest of the duchess.

  I await her return.

  Surely mademoiselle

  would be more comfortable—

  I am a guest of the duchess.

  I await her return.

  This one speaks perfect French

  and I am through with men

  who act as though

  they cannot comprehend

  simple words

  because they’ve fallen

  from the mouth of a woman.

  The stable boy gone,

  I stay on my feet,

  catch my balance

  so I do not look the fool

  when Isabella returns.

  How can I expect

  her help, her confidence,

  if I can barely take two steps

  without stumbling

  on the bodies in my wake?

  It seems you are

  a personal friend

  of the duchess, after all.

  I whirl around

  at the sound of a voice

  not the spindly stable boy’s.

  The guard

  from the night before.

  You clean up

  real nice.

  My heart thuds.

  I grasp for a sword

  I’ll never hold again.

  My stumble backward

  is my first mistake;

  I end up cornered.

  I owe you

  an apology.

  He steps toward me,

  slow, like he’s no threat

  except we both know

  he’s nothing but.

  If it weren’t for

  your pretty little friend—

  Emilde—

  —I’d have turned you

  noble ladies out

  in the night.

  But ladies like you

  deserve to be kept

  warm and safe,

  secure behind walls.

  He’s an arm’s length away.

  I could stab him if only—

  I glance wildly around.

  The tools on the wall

  are promising, but

  he’s too close

  for pitchfork, whip—

  What’s wrong, chérie?

  Nothing to fear.

  You’re safe now.

  He reaches out a hand,

  trails a finger down

  the side of my face.

  I meet his gaze,

  let him drink in

  the fear in my eyes,

  his intoxicant of choice

  distracting while

  my hand lashes out

  grabs the hoof pick

  from the wall—

  its short, curved blade

  the perfect size

  to thrust against his neck

  force him against the stall

  draw a bead of blood

  while he struggles

  the terror reversed.

  Hoofbeats approach

  but I do not move.

  I’ll not give up this prey.

  Your form has improved.

  Your Grace!

  He cries out desperately

  to the duchess, pleads

  with a woman to save him.

  This madwoman—

  I think

  she’s not so mad.

  Provoked, perhaps?

  Isabella takes her time

  removing her horse’s saddle,

  leading him to his stall.

  I keep my gaze

  pinned on my prey,

  blade to his neck

  enjoying his fear.

  How many throats

  pulsing, alive

  do I need to feel

  on the tip of my blade

  before I’m safe?

  I falter.

  The moment I do

  he spins away

  from my weapon

  and straight into

  the tip of another blade.

  Isabella holds

  her dagger casually

  a lace fan

  a parasol

  a deadly weapon.

  His crime, then?

  No crime—

  I’m not asking you.

  Her gaze flits

  from him to me

  then back to him.

  She won’t falter.

  But what was his crime?

  I know how he made me feel

  last night at the gate, in the kitchen,

  and now, with his hand on my face

  but a man will hardly

  find himself convicted

  of touching a maiden

  on the face.

  I only meant

  to serve her needs—

  With a flick

  of her wrist,

  the noble lady

  Queen of Naples

  Duchess of Lorraine

  slices the fabric of his tunic

  and also, judging by his howl,

  his flesh as well.

  Rope.

  She juts her chin toward the wall

  where I found the hook.

  I grab a length of rope.

  You do the honors.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jess’s phone goes straight to voicemail when I call in the morning. Which might not be morning so much as late afternoon, because I slept until nearly noon and then wrote for hours. But they’ll understand. They understand passions more than anyone else I know.

  Except Nor, maybe.

  I’m sure that in the light of day, they’re feeling better.

  When they don’t answer or respond to texts by dark, I assume they’re huffy I didn’t tell them to come straight over in the middle of the night. Maybe I’m a terrible friend
.

  But really? They’ve been pretty clear I’m a second-choice friend anyway. I’m wrestling with a lot and they know it. Their big crisis was that the thing they knew was going to happen actually happened. I don’t blame them for being upset, but this was one disaster they should have seen coming.

  I do the only thing left: I write.

  WE

  I’ll need a reason

  to detain him.

  Isabella plucks hay

  from the waist of my gown

  as the dungeon’s heavy doors

  clang shut behind us.

  He has a wife,

  children.

  If he’s released

  we won’t be safe here.

  I’ll need a new plan.

  Isabella takes my arm

  before I can escape

  up the stairs.

  I believe you.

  Whatever happened,

  I believe you.

  It wasn’t—

  Nothing happened.

  She nods.

  But it was going to?

  If you hadn’t arrived—

  That’s all I need.

  He won’t trouble you again.

  Her warm fingers

  slide down my arm

  until they slip into my hand

  small, cold

  hold me tight

  guide me up

  into the light.

  You’ll need weapons.

  Training, preparation.

  Isabella’s hound

  follows her pace for pace

  across the sitting room.

  I’ve been trained.

  For battle?

  I hesitate.

  You flinch like that in the field

  and you’ll be impaled

  on the end of Chalon’s sword.

  Father taught me

  rules and decorum,

  no different really

  than Mother’s table manners.

  But what was the use

  of empty techniques

  when battle is kill

  or be killed?

  I may as well have

  learned embroidery.

  At least then when

  I stabbed my target

  there’d be an end result.

  Your sword work

  hand-to-hand

  is excellent.

  I worry, though,

  how you will fare

  atop a moving horse.

  I could slip out

  in the night,

  make my way

  to the camp

  of the Prince of Orange

  A mace and battle ax

  are useful at close range

  as they can smash a helmet

  and kill a man on contact.

  run my sword

  through him

  and die

  by his men

  whose rage would burn

  hotter when their general

  dies at the hands of a girl.

  I do not care to battle

  with a lance, for once

  your opponent is impaled

  he’s dead, but you’re

  without a weapon. Still,

  we must bring lances

  or we won’t—

  Wait, we?

  She stops pacing.

  Her hound stops too.

  Of course we.

  Did you think

  I’d let you

  go alone?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I’m not a total asshole. When a few more days go by without a response from Jess, I track down a number for Summer and text her. Jess said Camp Theater Paradise didn’t have good cell service, but surely teens marooned on an island for an entire summer find a way.

  Summer responds within a day. Jess left town.

  That’s my first clue that I was a bigger jerk than I’d realized. I scour their social media, find few updates. Finally, a photo of Jess with a severely beautiful woman on a boat. All the time they’ve spent with my family this summer and I’ve never seen their mother once.

  So they went to Saipan. They had to be seriously pissed off to go all the way across the globe to escape me.

  But there I go being self-centered again. Probably the decision had nothing to do with me. Maybe.

  PENNYROYAL TEA

  Of course

  I thought

  I was alone.

  Parents dead

  brother gone

  sister walled in

  like an anchoress

  Zahra a friend

  but set apart

  by station

  I have only

  myself

  and my sword.

  And still

  I do not

  have a sword.

  Helene insists

  on taking midday meal

  in the kitchen.

  Isabella flutters a hand.

  Wherever she’s comfortable.

  I seat myself

  with the duchess

  and her husband,

  who only ever gazes

  upon her with adoration.

  I am so sorry

  for all you’ve been through.

  Does he know?

  Does he have any idea

  what we’ve been through?

  It’s so vague

  what we’ve been through

  a rainstorm

  a touch of fever

  the brutal slaughter

  of our entire household

  but his eyes are kind, sincere.

  Isabella places a hand

  over his on the table,

  rests there, as though

  touching a man

  does not have to be

  the most repulsive thing.

  Marinated leeks

  in mustard vinaigrette

  aromatic sausages

  with cinnamon and cloves

  fava bean soup

  freshly baked bread and

  spiced quince butter cake

  are spread before us

  on the table

  and though I have not

  had a proper meal

  in days, my stomach turns.

  Perhaps Helene

  has the right idea—

  bread and pottage

  with the servants

  feels more fitting

  and yet

  I’ll need my strength

  for the road ahead.

  I reach for

  a helping of leeks

  and the duchess

  is the one who bolts

  from the table

  retching.

  Shall I ring

  for her lady’s maid?

  I’ll go.

  Pardon me.

  René dashes

  from the room.

  I am left alone

  save a servant in the corner

  to eat the vegetables

  before me.

  I do not even care

  for leeks.

  Isabella finds me

  in the courtyard

  dueling air.

  Let’s get you

  a real weapon.

  She strides past me

  across the bailey,

  hound on her heels.

  I stumble to catch up.

  Are you well? We don’t hav
e to—

  I cannot abide fava beans.

  The armory will have

  what you need.

  Father’s estate did not have

  a proper armory, only

  a room in the east wing

  devoted to his weapons.

  Isabella’s armory

  is a cavernous chamber

  opposite the stables

  filled to bursting

  with swords and daggers

  polearms, maces, flails

  longbows, halberds, shields

  and armor that might

  even fit my frame.

  Ornate filigree

  on the cross guard

  of a beautiful sword

  draws my attention.

  Stunning, isn’t it?

  Isabella hands me

  a simpler weapon.

  But this is easier to maneuver

  and a far sharper blade.

  I take the sword,

  test its weight, possibility.

  The weapon

  is not as important

  as your skill.

  But the weapon

  is still

  important.

  She takes her own

  simple sword.

  Let’s see how much

  your technique has improved

  since you were a child.

  Three times I’ve

  disarmed the duchess

  when Zahra appears,

  out of breath.

  Begging your pardon, miss,

  but your sister is unwell.

  Swords clatter to the ground

  as we hurry to the kitchen,

  the enormous dog

  storming the threshold before us.

  Get that mangy beast

  out of my kitchen!

  The same miserable woman

  who would have sent us to the barn

  shakes a cleaver at the hound

  before going cloud white at the sight

  of his mistress on his heels.

  That mangy beast

  has a name, which is Owen,

  and he will go

  where he pleases

  in my home.

  The maid sinks

  into a curtsy so low I fear

  she may not rise again.

  Yes, madame.

  Begging pardon, madame.

  Zahra beckons us

  to a far corner.

  She’s here.

  Searching for Helene

  in a kitchen, among servants—

  my mind stutters

  on the horrors

 

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