The Reigning and the Rule

by Calia Read

  The directions said the test would take a few minutes for the results to appear. Nervously, I begin to pace the small bathroom. I can’t look in the direction of the test, yet I feel as though the seconds ticking by are hours.

  What am I going to do if the results come back as positive? Just thinking about it makes me feel queasy.

  “You’re just sick, Serene,” I repeat.

  But I’ve been telling myself that since I came home. I’ve been telling myself I’ve been sick because of Étienne. Think about it; the mind is a powerful tool, but so are emotions, and they can cause physical symptoms.

  But then I began to get unusual symptoms. The smell of cheese made me queasy. I started getting horrible heartburn. I’ve thrown up consistently every night, like clockwork. One second, I wanted to curl up in a ball and sob. The next, I was tempted to throw a chair out the window. It was a constant hurricane of emotions, and I could barely keep up with them. I was giving myself emotional whiplash.

  Two days ago, I tried to remember the last time I had my period, and I couldn’t pinpoint a specific date. When I was in Étienne’s time, everything was so hectic I could barely keep up with the day to day. I didn’t put much stock into when Auntie Flo came for her monthly visit. Vaguely, I recall bleeding when I went horseback riding with Étienne, Scarlett, Nicholas, and Livingston. I was so wrapped up in my hurt and anger, I didn’t focus on my cycle. I had bigger fish to fry.

  Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms. My shoulders are slightly hunched as I stare down at my feet. I know more than a few minutes have passed, but I can’t bring myself to walk over and see the results.

  Just walk over there, Serene, my mind urges. You need to discover the truth.

  Exhaling a shaky breath, I slap my palms against my jeans and walk over to the test. I’m so nervous that when I pick up the white stick, it shakes between my fingers.

  As I look at the results, I nearly drop the test in the toilet because on the small digital screen is the word PREGNANT.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Instinctively, my free hand goes straight to my flat stomach. Blindly, I stare at the wall in front of me. Then I look down at the test as if it will change and say NOT PREGNANT. But the word is still the same. Gripping the test, I walk back to the counter. I drop the test on the granite surface. I place my palms on the counter and close my eyes.

  “Oh, God,” I repeat. My heart hammers in my chest as I stare so hard at the test, my eyes begin to blur. I feel elation but also incredible fear because holy fucking shit I’m pregnant.

  “What have we done?” I whisper, willing Étienne to magically appear and answer the burning question for me.

  Right then, someone knocks on my bathroom door. My head shoots up in alarm.

  “Serene?” my mom says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I speak with you?”

  “Can it wait? I’m going to the restroom,” I lie.

  “Come here,” Mom calls, her voice laced with anxiety.

  Shooting the closed door a concerned look, I place the positive test in the bathroom closet and hide it under a neat pile of washcloths. Reaching around my neck, I unclasp my necklace. The chain sags around my chest. Carefully, I pull one part of the necklace away from my neck while holding the other to my chest. My engagement ring slides down the silver chain and drops into my palm. I grab it and push it onto my ring finger. During the day, I don’t wear the ring because my mom is astute. She’d see it sooner than later, and I know questions would arise. Questions I can’t answer without a fiancé. But I can’t be without this ring. So I carry it around my neck.

  Now that I know I’m pregnant with Étienne’s child, it changes everything. I don’t know what I’ll tell my mom if she happens to spot the ring. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. Taking a deep breath, I unlock the bathroom door and find my mom standing near one of the windows. Her brows form a tight V.

  I tuck my hands into my back pockets and try to act as if I didn’t just receive life-changing news a minute ago. “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Do you have a date with someone tonight?”

  I give her a look. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Do you have a date with someone tonight?” she repeats slowly as if I’m hard of hearing. “A man is standing by your car.” She gestures toward the window for me to have a look.

  Slowly, I back away from the doorway and head to the window. With my middle and index finger, I pull apart the blinds and peek outside.

  When I see who’s standing there, I stumble away, my back slamming into the wall.

  “Is everything okay? Should I call the police?” my mom asks in concern.

  I shake my head, my heart pounding as I run out of the room. “No. Everything’s fine.”

  It’s a miracle I don’t fall down the stairs. Behind me, I can hear my mom calling my name, asking what’s going on. Forgoing shoes, I open the front door and run onto the porch and down the steps.

  The cold pavement against my bare feet is a shock to my system but reminds me I’m alive. Reminds me I’m awake and all of this is real, and he’s mere steps in front of me. His hands on his hips as he tilts his head to the side and inspects my car with fascination.

  “Étienne?” I whisper.

  He whips his body around and stares at me with an intensity that almost makes me sob with relief. I don’t know what’s happening or how he came to be here, but all that matters is he’s standing in front of me.

  His mouth parts slowly, and instead of words, a short burst of air escapes him as he slowly walks toward me. I stay perfectly still and don’t make a sound, or barely breathe until he’s standing in front of me.

  I open my mouth to say I love him. To say I miss him. To ask how he got here, but he silences all those words by cradling my face between his hands and kissing me on the lips. My hands curl around his wrist for balance as he tilts my head back. His tongue sweeps into my mouth. I can’t stand the inches that linger between us and lean against him.

  I breathe deeply through my nose and inhale his aftershave making me sink deeper into the kiss.

  After a few more seconds, Étienne pulls away first. His forehead touching mine, hands still holding my face, eyes locked on me.

  We stand there motionless with only our child between the two of us, slowly growing inside me.

  “What have we done?” I whisper.

  It’s not often someone tells you when you will die.

  When the opportunity does happen, it goes beyond the realm of surreal into alarming territory. I’ve been following the news as closely as possible in Europe by writing to a cousin on the Lacroix side who still resides in France. Unrest will linger in every nation in every way. However, my cousin mentioned Young Bosnia and their ties to the Black Hand was a secret institution founded by members of the Serbian Army. It was established in 1911 and had hundreds of members this year. Its influence over the government was growing stronger.

  I read the letter over and over, each time frissons of alarm danced down my spine. I wanted to believe that Serene was wrong, and there would never be a war, but I was beginning to think otherwise. It was merely a matter of time. Even so, armed with the information I had, I know I would still enlist if war came this way. A restlessness has been growing inside me for years now. Étienne thinks my approach to working is apathetic. I consider it dissatisfied.

  Étienne and I are twins; however, our brains are not wired the same. I don’t derive pleasure by working long hours and taking risky investments. I wasn’t born to run a business like Étienne, but I was raised to. Working for the shipping company came naturally, yet the company was more or less in the hands of other members of the board. Hell, it’s been a week, and I’ve only gone to the office once.

  If I had any say in the matter, I would design homes. Growing up, between studying, I would sketch buildings and homes. Homes that deviated from the Charleston single homes I was familiar with, the plantation houses across the Lowcountry. Th
ere were times I would incorporate architectural aspects of those homes in other sketches. By the time I left for college, I had a large stack of blueprints hidden underneath my bed. Only Étienne and our mother knew about my ambitions. And now just Étienne. For one second, Serene almost found out when she walked in on me. I hid the blueprints, and thankfully another subject was brought up.

  I used to think there was a distinct possibility I could make my dreams into a reality. Étienne would take over the shipping company. If we were the royal family, he is the heir, and I am simply the spare son.

  When our parents and brother passed away, everything that was right in our world turned upside down. It’s been twenty-four years since then. The shipping company is thriving. Étienne has his own business ventures. I believe it’s time I focus on what truly sets my soul on fire.

  Tomorrow, I’m going to Belgrave to speak with my brother about stepping away from the family company indefinitely. It’s been days since I’ve seen or heard from him, which is virtually unheard of for us. I trust he will understand. However, that could be the alcohol swimming in my veins, giving me liquid courage.

  I’ve spent the majority of the night at Chicco’s Cafe trying to articulate what I would say to Étienne. Being stoic or severe is not part of my nature. I leave that to Étienne. I’m the untroubled brother. In Charleston, I’m known as the carefree Lacroix and the one no woman can pin down. Unless it’s in bed.

  I’ve been with widows and married women. On more than one occasion, I’ve hidden in an armoire. Once, I climbed down a rose trellis, narrowly escaping a husband. Another time, I wasn’t so lucky, and with my pants barely buttoned, one arm through a shirt sleeve, and barefoot, I jumped out of a window and broke my foot. All the while the husband hurled insults above me.

  For those actions alone, Charleston society should eschew me forever. But if you have charisma and know how to use it at the right time, life will treat you well, and people will forget about your indiscretions.

  My footsteps are unsteady on the cobblestone pathway. My senses are bombarded by the Confederate jasmine clinging to the wrought-iron gates on my right. I feel the ocean breeze against my hot skin. I drank too much. In the back of my mind, I know I’ll regret this decision come tomorrow morning. However, I don’t right now.

  Going to an empty home seems decidedly disheartening. I make a sharp left and head toward the Pleasonton house. Rainey is home. Rainey is always home. Rainey will be at the Pleasonton home for the rest of her life because every man from Ashley to the Wando River is petrified of her. The scar tissue around my wound on my leg throbs just thinking about her. Yet the grin on my face says a different story. The chances of her letting me inside are slim. But her opening her window and giving me the tongue lashing of the century is incredibly high.

  My footsteps quicken as I cross the street. I lift my head when I step onto Broad Street, and when I do, I see a woman who looks awfully familiar. She’s walking the opposite direction of me with her head down, but I would recognize that red hair anywhere. Strands snake out of the corner of the hood of her cape like silk ribbons.

  “Serene?” I call out.

  She turns her head and stares in my direction. Her eyes widen. I tilt my head to the side and give her a once-over. Underneath the streetlamp, I can see something is not right. She lowers the hood of her green cape. Her hair is pulled back. With the exception of hair near her temples, no strands are out of place. Her posture is perfectly straight as her fingers are laced in front of her.

  She doesn’t wave or say something wildly inappropriate. All she does is lift a perfectly arched brow and look at me blankly. As if she doesn’t know me. As if we’ve never met.

  My blood runs cold because I’m staring at Old Serene. It can’t be. She no longer exists. Before I can take a step toward her, she backs away, appearing scared, lifts her hood up, and hurries down the street. I begin to follow her.

  “Serene, come back!”

  Her footsteps increase until she’s nearly running. Her hood falls to her shoulders, and her heels echo on the cobblestones. I stop walking and stare at her retreating form until the darkness swallows her whole. Am I hallucinating? Was she a figment of my imagination? I shake my head slowly and attempt to tell myself that it was all in my head, but the hairs standing on the back of my neck say otherwise.

  “Lacroix,” someone says from behind me. “I need to speak with you.”

  My mind is still spinning. Did I just see Serene? But my manners dictate I respond. Especially to a lady. I fix a smile on my face and turn. The voice sounds familiar, yet at the same time, I can’t place it. Instead of being met with a pretty face, I’m greeted with a blur of brown hair before a crowbar comes smashing against the side of my head.

  There’s no time to defend myself from the onslaught of heavy whacks being inflicted with the metal bar. No time to lift my hands. No time to get a clear look at who my assailant is because the world begins to narrow as if I’m looking at it through a telescope. Smaller and smaller, the world shrinks until it’s the size of a pinprick. My body collapses to the ground, and my head hits the cobblestone. My teeth rattle from the impact, and the pain rocks through my body, but I don’t open my eyes because my world has gone black.

  “What’s going on here?” I distantly hear someone shout.

  The sound of metal falling clangs loudly. Someone runs and then I feel a hand shaking my shoulder, but my body is starting to go numb.

  “Sir? Sir, are you okay?”

  It’s not often someone tells you when you will die. I imagine the chances of embracing death with open arms is slim to none, but as I lay there, with the metallic scent of my blood surrounding me, I walk into its dark embrace.

  acknowledgements

  THE SURVIVING TRACE READERS!!! It’s no secret that I held onto the first story for as long as possible. I didn’t know how people would take Serene and Etienne. Yet you lovely readers fiercely embraced them. I see your edits, read your messages, and posts! They mean the world to me. Thank you!!

  BIG, BIG thanks to my beta readers (aka my girls who saw the diamond in the rough)- Talon Smith, Alyssa Cole, Allie Siebers, Melissa Jones and Beth Suit. Thank you for taking the time to read the rough draft and giving your honest feedback. Danke, danke, danke!!

  To my proofreaders: Rea Loftis, Michelle Clay and Kim Svetlin! Thank you for everything! I am so grateful!

  Thank you to real life Nathalie and Margo for the French translations.

  Annette Brignac for your fantastic Google doc skills.

  Beth Suit and ‘The Researcher’- Thank you for going a step further and finding information that I never dreamed possible of the past!

  Michelle Clay- Thank you for helping me with all things TRaTR related! Have you given that PR Company any thought?

  Thank you to my baby Talon for the stunning edits. Is there anything you can’t do???

  Thank you to Jenny Sims from Editing4Indies for doing such a fantastic job on The Reigning and the Rule! It was amazing working with you.

  Thank you to Juliana Cabrera from Jersey Girl Design for formatting The Reigning and the Rule. Now get back here and love me!!

  And to my husband, Joshua. Thank you. Thank you is never enough. You are a quiet support. You listen when I need to talk a plot point through. Always help with the kiddos. Consistently believe in me. You are my surviving trace.

  Air five.

  about the author

  College seemed like too much stress for me. Traveling across the world, getting married, and having five kids seemed much more relaxing. Yeah, I’m still waiting for the relaxing part to kick in...I change addresses every other year. It’s not by choice but it is my reality. While the crazies of life kept me busy, the stories in my head decided to bubble to the surface. They were dying to be told and I was dying to tell them. I hope you enjoy escaping to the crazy world of these characters with me!!

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