We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire
Page 19
The duchess taught me
to waltz, as well as to kill.
No amount of ale
can distract us
from the truth
of what we have
set out to do.
I’ve had a taste—
the man in the alley
the man in the stable.
When the time comes
will I be capable
of draining the life
from a monster?
And do I want
that answer to be
yes?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I write.
No one else can do this for me.
And this story has to be told. It can’t be yet another folded-up scrap caught in the bottom of a shoebox.
I can’t tell Nor’s story. But I can tell Marguerite’s. No one else is going to.
So I write, even when the sun is shining and I could be at Green Lake with Chester. I write, even when my dad asks me to help him make ravioli. I write, even when I miss a movie marathon with Mom, miss a Skype date with Francie and Sam, miss my grandma’s birthday party.
I write, even when I could be sleeping except I couldn’t really because my mind never stops spinning out the next piece of the story, Marguerite’s story, the bedtime story we all should have heard but instead we got stories of princesses in towers and princes so inept they somehow got thorns in their eyes.
There’s no prince to save Marguerite, just like there was no prince for Nor. Marguerite has to do this shit on her own, and she’s scared—so am I—but she’s not letting a little thing like abject terror stop her.
Marguerite knows how to wield a sword.
I will too before I’m done.
BINDINGS
Tents billow in the distance
resisting a wind that seeks
to tear them down.
Close enough we’re almost there
but far enough they will not see us
stop, retreat behind some trees.
The trousers and tunics
borrowed from René
have served us well
as traveling clothes
but now we add the final detail:
heavy linen strips
to bind our breasts.
Because we’re born
with the ability to produce food
and sustain life, we are considered
weak.
I’d laugh if not for
the searing pain
as Zahra winds
the linen round my self.
Sentries throwing dice
straighten up
at our approach.
I run a nervous hand
through close-shorn locks
then lift it in friendly greeting.
We wave the Crown’s flag
but any sentry worth their sword
would know Chalon’s men
are not above deceit.
I seek a deep breath
to steady my nerves
but my bindings only
allow the barest bit of air
into my lungs
and so my
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It’s bullshit.
Marguerite and Zahra having to cut their hair, bind their breasts, erase themselves.
It’s my first impulse, born of As You Like It and Twelfth Night and Lord of the Rings and Song of the Lioness. Girls dressing as boys to gain access to what no one will give them otherwise. Only as boys can they possibly wield their rage.
The duchess would have advised it, probably. The cooler, calmer head prevailing. Sometimes you make sacrifices, play the game before you twist the rules.
But Marguerite doesn’t have land and power, a duchy, a husband treating her as an equal, and a future with a girl she’ll raise to be as fierce as she is. She’s not operating from a place of security and support.
She’s an untethered ball of rage.
The rules don’t matter because she’s never been playing a game.
And when she finds the Prince of Orange, she’ll want him to know exactly who has come for him and why.
FLOWERS
Sentries throwing dice
straighten up
at our approach.
I run a nervous hand
through the length of my hair
then wave in friendly greeting.
We fly the Crown’s flag
but any sentry worth their sword
would know Chalon’s men
are not above deceit.
Zahra and I exchange a glance
then prod our horses forward
until we are right before the men.
Mesdemoiselles?
We wish to speak with
Governor de Gaucourt.
The taller of two sentries
chuckles, strokes Minuit’s nose.
I doubt that will be necessary.
If you have come to . . .
. . . meet the needs
of our men at arms—
We haven’t.
A flicker of self-doubt.
Zahra argued we should use
assumptions to our advantage
if only to gain entry, but I refuse.
I do not judge the camp followers
who survive by men’s basest desires
but I will not fall back on my form
when I have every right
to be here as I am.
The man’s tone shifts.
Not only is my body
not for his pleasure but
I have interrupted him.
We have no need
of cooks or washerwomen.
You’d best be on your way.
You must think us foolish, sirs.
Zahra giggles, setting out
on another story.
Will she say I’m addled,
with child, lovesick?
I won’t wait to find out.
Waiting for someone else
to act is how we got here.
I’m almost sure
they won’t run me through
with the nearest lance
when I force entry into the camp.
Not speared but grabbed
the moment I’m in reach,
thrown hand to hand
and hauled into a tent
where terror chokes me.
If I had trusted Zahra—
Don’t move.
The one left standing guard
is my age, maybe younger.
I wish to speak
with the governor.
I said, don’t move!
He points his dagger
as though he’d use it.
I didn’t threaten him.
I didn’t draw my own dagger
tucked against the thigh
he’d never dream
could give him
anything but pleasure.
I only spoke.
Perhaps that’s worse.
My traveling companion—
Shut your mouth!
I have to believe Zahra
is being held with more care.
She knows how to speak
to these men, she is not
blunt force like I.
But that is why
I will succeed.
The young one is
far too insecure,
too eager to prove
he’s man enough.
>
The fact he’s never
known a willing girl
only means he’s sure to feel
entitled, enraged by any woman
who does not exist to please him.
He’d slice my throat
to show he could.
I wait until
he is replaced.
My new guard is weathered,
too old for this life
but he knows no other.
Nearly one hundred years
the battles for power have raged
and all anyone has to show
are dead brothers, sons,
the ones who live hardened,
desiring only to meet
their basest needs, survive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Hon?”
Mom sticks her head in my door as though I haven’t told her a million times to knock.
She waves a familiar blue box at me. “I got tampons.”
“Okay? You can leave them on my dresser.”
“Are you keeping some in here now?”
“Does it matter?” I slam my notebook shut.
“Of course not, sweetie, I just, I went to put them in your bathroom and saw that you still have a full box. I’ve run out, and we’re usually pretty—”
“I didn’t realize I had to account for every menstrual product I use now!”
I’m being a total brat and I’m fully aware of it but also incapable of stopping even when I see the pain written across Mom’s face.
“I’m just worried about you.”
“I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” I say, jumping up and taking the box, then holding the door open in invitation.
“That wasn’t what I was suggesting,” she says, taking the unsubtle hint and walking through the door. “But if you were, you know you could—”
“Okay, thanks.” I shut the door.
She thinks my systems are breaking down, that I’m not taking care of myself like I promised, that I’m not eating and sleeping and humaning like a normal person with normal worries who can afford to do those things, who has time and energy in their normal life because they don’t have this story they have to tell bursting out of their chest like an alien, this story they have to keep telling or they’ll never know how it turns out, if it turns out okay.
She’s not wrong, either. But I don’t care.
I need to relieve myself.
My guard acts as though
he doesn’t hear me
but the blush creeping
up his neck says otherwise.
Sir, if you please.
It’s my time.
Still nothing.
I have the flowers.
The courses?
My flow is—
Hold your peace!
He glances around
for someone to save him
from this most horrifying prospect—
a woman bleeding.
A divine punishment
on half the world
because one woman
(as the story goes
though let’s be honest
a woman didn’t write that tale)
couldn’t bear to pass up
a juicy piece of
fruit:
The monthly shedding
of blood, without which
the wandering womb
would flood is capable of:
souring wine felling fruit
killing bees blighting crops
infecting dogs corroding male members
killing children in the womb
or should it live, poisoning a child
through the vapors that flow
through the eyes of a woman
with the flowers.
So terrifying, a woman’s blood,
but more terrifying still:
A woman who does not bleed
is prone to many forms of madness.
And a woman who’s mad
is most terrifying of all.
On your feet.
He jerks his chin to the door,
leads me on the point of his dagger
to a board suspended over a pit of waste.
My stomach turns.
In my rush to match
my mettle to any man’s
I had not considered the reality
of day-to-day with soldiers.
Some privacy, sir?
The pit is situated
along the edge of the camp
backed up against scraggly woods.
If I were on my own, I could run for cover,
get a head start before he realized I’d gone.
But I didn’t come
all this way to run
and most of all:
I’d never leave Zahra.
The camp is laid out
as René predicted:
the grandest tent in the center,
home to the governor of Dauphine,
leader of these troops,
the only one with power
to let us stay as equals.
My captor is distracted
chatting with a fellow soldier
perhaps exchanging tips
on how best to protect their
crops and dogs and members
from the corrosion of a woman’s flowers.
Do men discuss such things?
There’s a chance
I can get from the pit
to the nearest tent
and from there decide
my next move.
A chance is all I need.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
What if I had a chance to be alone with Craig Lawrence and the dagger that’s become an extension of my self? Only in the dead of night for now, safe inside my family home, but what if they became a reality, the scenes that play out on the movie screen of my mind once I’ve willed myself to sleep, fingers still gripped around the dagger’s handle?
SUBSERVIENT
I move against my instinct,
slowly, less prone to catch the eye.
The men continue talking,
avoiding me, my blood.
(All the blood
they spill on battlefields
but one drop from my womb
could bring them down.)
I reach the first tent,
heart in my throat.
My goal:
find Zahra or
reach the governor,
whichever comes first.
When several men
stomp toward me
I fight the instinct to flee.
Instead, eyes down,
invisible, I play my role:
subservient woman who
cleans their soiled garments
cooks their meals
relieves them in the night.
They needn’t know
she keeps a hand on the dagger
concealed beneath her skirts.
Emboldened when they pass
without a glance
I pick up my pace,
focus on reaching
the governor.
I’m very nearly there.
If I should shout
he’d probably hear
but shouting would draw
the wrong attention.
Head down
silent as thunder
I fight the urge to run
and then—
Mademoiselle
de Bressieux?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Soft fingers intertwine with mine on cool, crisp sheets. Bright lights, antiseptic smell, a steady hum of voices and beeping, punctuated by calls over an intercom.
I’m back in the hospital with Nor, trying not to faint at the sight of her blood—they’ve stripped off her clothes while she stands in the middle of a sheet we have to hope will gather physical evidence, because god knows a girl’s word isn’t enough.
Except now I’m the one in a bed. My eyes drift down the length of my arm and land on the leather cuff encircling someone else’s wrist.
Mom’s only accessory is her simple wedding band.
I force my brain to do the work that’s normally automatic, but under the haze of whatever they’re pumping through me, it’s a conscious effort to turn my head and see a sheet of jet-black hair falling over a face bowed low.
Jess is here. I manage to form words. “Are you praying?”
Their head snaps up. “Why, yes, yes I am. Praying to the goddess that you will survive so she can then smite you for reckless endangerment of my nerves!”
My brain isn’t functional enough to wrap around Jess’s words. “I’m fine.” I squeeze their hand. At least I try. “You’re here.”
“In the flesh.”
“I was such a jerk and you came from Saipan.”
They laugh. “You were a total jerk. Terrible friend.”
“Jess, I—”
“But I only came from San Francisco. And I was pretty shitty too, not responding to any of your messages or telling you where I’d gone.”
“I saw a picture of you on a boat. With your mom.”
Jess’s brow furrows, then realization dawns. “Not my mom. Though if Dad has his way, she’ll be my mom’s replacement soon. That was Vanessa. In San Francisco Bay.”
“You went with your dad?”
They shrug. “Mostly so I could go to a Guild of Cookery feast.”
They ramble for a while about some young, medieval-obsessed chef duo that prepares eight-course meals in San Francisco based on period-correct recipes and cooking techniques.
That can’t be the only reason they chose San Francisco over a tropical island, but who’s to say how Jess’s brain works. Whatever the reason, when I needed them, they were a short plane ride away. Even though I hadn’t been there for them when I was only a couple miles away.