Dark One's Bride

by Aldrea Alien

  “However did you manage to feed someone so young?” She could comprehend these children being able to care for a toddler, for they’d merely need to soften whatever food they scrounged. But an infant? Experience told her they required milk, be it their mother’s or from another milk-giving animal.

  “It was late spring,” Sweetie replied. “Derek creeps into the cattle yards at night when the nomads bring their herds in. He milks enough from the cows for us.”

  Clara frowned. Whilst a bold move, she was well aware of the power behind those beasts should they choose to lash out. “You’re lucky to not have been injured by one of them. I hope not to see any foolish risks such as that taken whilst under my care.”

  Derek gave her a sheepish smile, his shoulders hunching. “No, Miss.”

  “Since we’re on the subject of nourishment, I hear you’ve all been fed?”

  Sweetie nodded. “They took us into the kitchen before sundown.”

  “It was full of food,” Poppet added. “Like, this much!” She spread her little arms as wide as they could go.

  Trouble jumped behind the girl and mimicked her. “More like this.”

  “That’s a lot of food. I hope none of you stuffed yourselves.” The last thing she needed was for the children to make themselves sick through eating more than their bodies could handle. She’d already been down that road when Lucias first insisted she wasn’t eating nearly enough.

  “The nice lady with the big belly told us to eat until we were full,” Rascal said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “The neck is tight, Miss.”

  “That’s because it fits you better than your old clothes.” Most of their old attire had been beyond slightly baggy. Poppet’s garb, if it truly could be called that, had barely been more than a sack in comparison to the lovely chemise she currently wore. “Still…” Clara knelt before Rascal and gently loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. “No one’ll mind.”

  “Did you see the tiny size of the roast birds?” Trouble asked of Ruby, the two still clearly back on the subject of food. “I could’ve fit a whole one in my mouth. The pigeons in the square were fatter.”

  Ruby wrinkled her nose. She clasped her thumbs and flapped her fingers like a bird whilst shaking her head. Indicating herself with a forefinger, she mimed stuffing her mouth before using the same finger to turn the end of her nose up and make a rough grunting noise.

  “No way you could’ve eaten that whole roast pig,” Rascal retorted, twisting whilst his shirt was still in Clara’s grip. A third button popped open.

  The girl defiantly tilted her chin.

  “Well, I could eat a whole cow if I wanted to.”

  Sweetie snorted. “But that would mean you’d need to go near a cow again and we all know that’ll never happen.”

  “I’ll eat cooked cow.”

  “It’s called beef, genius,” Woden said, cocking his head and swinging those blue eyes inward until he peered at his own nose.

  “I knew that,” Rascal snapped, his little nose wrinkling with indignation.

  Clara scrubbed at her face, using it as an excuse to cover her mouth and hide her laughter. She’d enjoyed minding the younger children in her street, not just for the few pennies or extra food each job would pay. She’d missed the simple banter and competition most of all.

  Trouble sighed wistfully. His eyes had glazed over at the mention of beef and he continued to stare into whatever memory the conversation had taken him to. “I ate beef once,” he murmured, his voice all but lost against the ruckus of the rest. “It was a festival, just before Papa and me came here.”

  Clearing her throat, Clara waited until each child had turned their attention to her. “I expect to see all of you in the dining hall come morning. And I want each and every one of you on your best behaviour.”

  “We get to eat two days in a row?” Poppet squealed, her brown eyes huge with wonder.

  “Of course,” she murmured reassuringly, her stomach dropping at the girl’s words. Naturally, it would be difficult for them to find enough to feed all seven every single day, but it wasn’t a thought she had lingered on for too long. “You’ll get three meals a day, every day. The same as everyone else here.”

  “Three?” The high-pitched sound coming out of the little girl’s mouth was almost beyond the range of hearing.

  “Got it!” Tommy declared from out in the hall. He barrelled through the doorway, pausing only to squeeze by Lucias.

  Thanking him, Clara took the jar from Tommy and unscrewed the lid. All the while, her gaze lingered on Lucias. As still and silent as he’d been, she’d forgotten his presence entirely. Even now, he seemed to prefer his stance of leaning casually in the doorway and observing. Was the distance because of the children? If so, then for the benefit of who?

  Motioning the two younger boys closer, she applied a thick layer of the balm to Rascal’s lips before moving on to smother Trouble’s face. “I want each of you to apply this twice a day, that’s both when you wake up and just before you go to bed.” Handing the jar over the Derek, she fixed the younger children with a stern stare. “Which you all should’ve been doing rather than playing whatever game you’ve got here.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Sweetie asked. The girl had returned to her perch on the end of a bed and seemed indifferent to the fact each forward rock had her dangling over the edge quite precariously. “The pregnant lady said you’ll be leaving in a few days.”

  “Well, this isn’t our home. But you’re all going to travel to the Citadel with me. And Lucias, of course.” She glanced over her shoulder, trying to gauge his reaction. It was possible that he’d continue on with his plan to visit the other border towns without her.

  “They look after you there,” Tommy said. “There’s always plenty of food, clothes that’ll fit and you can sleep in your own beds.”

  Clara nodded. Whilst she hadn’t checked every inch of the Citadel like her page—not even during her attempts to flee the place—she knew there were more than enough spare bedrooms for the children to have one each if they desired. “You’ll also be taught to read and write, along with whatever skills you’d like to learn.”

  “Like an academy?” Sweetie pressed. “The priests told us about them once, they didn’t seem very exciting.”

  “I don’t—” Words failed her. The only academies she had ever heard about were through the hushed mutterings of disgruntled folk back in Everdark. Usually, those mutters were directed at some young man with what her father used to term as fanciful ideas on how the world worked. They never stayed very long.

  “It won’t be like that at all,” Lucias said, straightening to stand squarely within the doorframe. “For starters, we’ll be family.”

  “Does that make you our big sister?” Poppet asked of Clara.

  “I can be, if you’d like. I’ve never had siblings before.” She waggled a finger in mock sternness. “But don’t think that means I’ll go easy on your studies.”

  “You don’t sound like a sister,” Sweetie said. “You sound more like a mum.”

  Poppet gasped. Her already wide eyes somehow seemed to grow even more so. “I’ve never had one of those,” she whispered.

  Clara knelt at the little girl’s side and wrapped her arms around the bony frame. “If you’d prefer, I’d be honoured to be your mum.”

  Thin arms tightened around her shoulders. Too long to be Poppet’s.

  Clara lifted her head to find her face enveloped by the pale cloud that was Sweetie’s hair.

  More arms embraced her. The boys. A tightness welled in her chest. Tears threatened to pour forth. It would be hard for them all, but she was willing to find a way through that. For family.

  Chapter Twelve

  Her bathing chamber was freezing. She’d never considered before how a whole bath of steaming water could also heat the room to a bearably warm temperature. Her little bucket of tepid water really had no hope of matching such lofty ideals.

  It also somewh
at encouraged her to be swift with her bathing. Fortunately, she’d very little in the way of actual dirt to cleanse herself of after her late afternoon scrub down yesterday.

  Clara eyed the black-enamelled bath whilst drying herself. It sat in the middle of the room like a hulking beast. Yes, she could’ve requested the servants fill it for her, but then what? Stand around in her nightgown whilst they trotted in with buckets of hot water? Asking for the simple one she currently used had been bad enough. At least they knew to leave a bucket outside her chambers back in the Citadel.

  She rubbed vigorously at her damp skin, the softness of the cloth doing little beyond moving the water around. It was with much effort that she was finally able to call herself dry.

  Setting the towel aside, she carefully hoisted the bucket of water over the bath rim. The water gurgled down the plug hole. Hopefully, it actually went somewhere and wasn’t currently discharging all over the floor below.

  Interior plumbing was a relatively new innovation. None of the people she used to speak with in Everdark had such marvels in their houses, nor did even the most luxurious part of the Citadel harbour anything more than a basin.

  Just how had whoever oversaw the Endlight Castle’s upkeep also managed to integrate these modern touches?

  It didn’t stop at the drain. Taps protruded over the foot end of the tub. She hadn’t been bold enough to turn them and find out if they worked or were merely for show. The castle had to be several centuries old, being built back at the time of the kingdom’s formation, if not beforehand. She couldn’t imagine they’d have the foresight to install pipes.

  She watched the water drain away, her thoughts turning to what Lucias had said once they’d both ensured the children were safely tucked into their beds. She hadn’t paid much mind to his words then, being too concerned with the girls preferring to sleep scrunched beneath one blanket rather than in individual beds—an act she rather hoped would change over time.

  “It would seem that you pick up people the way others would stray dogs.” Lucias chuckled, those dark eyes glittering with genuine joy. “First Tommy, now this lot.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” The thought of having to tell those poor children they couldn’t actually stay was enough to make her stomach roll.

  He shook his head. “If I had, they wouldn’t have gotten this far into the castle. Naturally, Thad suggests caution in allowing you to adopt every urchin you come across, but all I see is a woman who will be an exceptionally good mother. I’m quite enamoured with the idea of filling the Citadel with children’s laughter. I think it’s been a long time since those walls heard such a sound. But I see no reason that they all need to be of my blood, and why should I deny those children a secure place to grow into who they’re meant to be purely on that basis?”

  She’d not been able to compose herself to answer within the short time it took Lucias to escort her to the black door leading to her bedchamber. Everything beyond that, the mundane task of readying herself for sleep—and finally unlacing that dreadfully snug corset—had been a fuzzy mess of memory.

  Was he suggesting adding more orphaned children to their brood? Perhaps in time. Settling seven new people into the Citadel’s orderly schedule would take some shuffling. Lessons would have to be planned.

  She absently curled her finger into her hair and ran the resulting tuft across her cheek. Perhaps it would be best to send for a governess to teach them. Not straight away, Clara could handle the basics, but she lacked certain skills and having those areas fleshed out could only gift the children with a wider choice.

  The plug hole gave a gulping suck as the last of the water drained away, jerking Clara from her musing.

  Throwing her dressing gown over her chemise and securely fastening the tie, she made her way into the comparatively brighter bedchamber. She’d flung back the dark curtains at first light and had cracked open a window to allow movement of the stale air. The wind had picked up during her time bathing, stirring the curtains and throwing odd shadows across the black walls.

  Settling on the stool before her dressing table, she tackled the knots sleep had woven into her hair. She swept the brush mindlessly through the blood-red strands, her thoughts slowly returning to the children.

  Just what should she focus on first? Reading seemed the logical choice. Maybe the castle library had something easy for them to start with.

  Another sound reached her ears over the whisper of bristles. She paused, the brush poised delicately above her head. Nothing. Holding her breath, she gave the brush another sweep through, softly so as to not drown out any noise and—

  There it was again. The faintest tap of a foot landing on the stone floor. Easily lost in the bustle of a morning routine.

  Was she not alone?

  Clara peered into her mirror, fussing absently with the wisps where her hair parted whilst her gaze ventured elsewhere. There was no movement in the reflection beyond her own, no hint of a person at her back.

  How could they have gotten in? She’d ushered everyone out and locked the door with the very key that still sat in the lock. Maybe it was just her imagination, a piece of Lucias’ paranoia settling on her shoulders.

  The window. She had thought it safe to leave open, given that they were several stories up and it’d require quite the enterprising assassin to even dare think of climbing such a height, never mind how they’d manage it.

  Nevertheless, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood to attention.

  Her questing gaze fell on the dagger openly sitting on the bedside table, precisely where she’d put it upon exiting the blankets. So much for always keeping a weapon on her person. Could she reach it before they realised her intentions? If it was truly an assassin, they were certainly taking their time.

  Grumbling and muttering under her breath as if she’d forgotten something vital, she set down the brush and swivelled on the stool. Even the new vantage point gave her nothing to go on. Where could a person hide?

  Clara lurched to her feet to pad across the room in a display of frustrated searching. She eyed the dressing screen, innocently sectioning off a corner of the room. Like the ones back in the Citadel, it stood as high as the doorway with solid panels all the way up. The feet gave enough clearance to reassure her that nobody stood behind them, but that didn’t leave off the fact they could be crouched on the chair.

  She reached the plush rug running along the side of the bed. As the soft slap of her bare feet vanished, that same barely-perceptible tap of another’s footfall continued at her back.

  A ripple of coldness skittered down her spine. Danger, it seemed to whisper. Behind you. She fussed with the blankets, continuing to play the part of an oblivious victim searching for an object of minor import. All the while, allowing her search to slowly close the distance between her and the bedside table.

  It took every ounce of willpower not to flee towards the dagger, but that would likely end in disaster. Whoever was in her room clearly planned to wait for the right moment. She didn’t linger on why, just focused on using it to her advantage whilst keeping an ear on those ghostly footsteps.

  At last, the weapon was within reach.

  In one smooth movement, Clara swiped the dagger from the table and swung about. With the weapon gripped by the hilt, the sheath flew off the blade.

  The dark figure shadowing her ducked.

  Clara took the opportunity of the distraction to scuttle towards the door.

  The figure—a man decked in black from the neck down—rolled across the floor and popped back onto his feet with far more speed than Clara had anticipated. He overtook her, drawing his weapon; a dagger that was considerably larger than her own.

  The soles of her feet skated on the floor, all balance lost for a moment. She dared to lift her gaze from the man to glance at the door. The key still stuck out of the lock. Good. If she could just reach it. If she could somehow cause the man to not be in her way.

  But how?

  A candlestick also sat
on her bedside table, thick and made entirely of iron. She took a step back towards it with her dagger held firmly in her fist, ready to stab at the first hint of the figure being within reach. Hopefully, all her training in the Citadel hadn’t been in vain.

  Her would-be assassin followed her step for step. She needed a distraction. She needed—

  Tommy. If she yelled, he’d come bearing the sword Lucias had gifted to him. He’d proven that through several of her more troublesome sleeps during the journey here. He wouldn’t be able to enter, but perhaps his presence at the door would be enough to gift her with the brief chance to unlock it.

  But if she called for her page, what guarantee did she have that the other children wouldn’t follow in his wake? What if their combined efforts at entry broke down the door?

  Clara took a deep breath, not willing to take her eyes off the man for another second. It was a risk she’d have to take. “Tommy!” The name blasted from her lips, loud enough to wake the dead.

  Her would-be assassin paused. He turned his head partially as if to look over his shoulder, but his gaze remained trained on her like a cat on a rat.

  She matched his glare with one of her own, hoping it didn’t betray the quaking she felt deep in her gut. Clara slid her foot back in the slowest of glides. Her mouth went dry.

  The air between them seemed to grow colder the longer they remained in place, rooted to the spot.

  “Clara?” Tommy called from the hall. The door handle rattled and the puzzled cry was fast muffled by the panicked thump of a body against the door. He called her name again, growing more frantic as the wooden barrier remained unyielding.

  The man turned, eyeing the entrance, and sneered.

  “Get Lucias!” she roared, diving for the candlestick. Hold him off. That’s all she needed to do. Once Lucias had arrived, then it would be over. That door would be no barrier to him and the man had nowhere to run beyond straight out the window to his death.

  Her would-be assassin smirked as she raised the candlestick. He crept closer, his dagger held low. The man didn’t seem all that big. Lean, perhaps, and possibly faster than herself. She supposed the fully-black attire would’ve been imposing to some, but she’d faced worse.