Neliem, page 11
From his tantalizing breath to the way his gaze sears through me, I know I must get away; escape is the only option. This Tristan is no amateur. He very well knows the effect he has on me and that I just might succumb to his charms if I don’t flee with my virtue intact.
In his able hands, I am clay he could mold to his likening indefinitely, then just as quickly toss away.
An image of a broken pot flickers in my mind, as well as the faces of the girls from my village, reduced to live vacant lives with no hope of any future. The ones that don’t attend the betrothal ceremonies, the ones kept hidden, working in the butcher shop late at night to wash away the blood.
Knowing what awaits me if I succumb, I pray for deliverance. I need to get away, and I need to do it now. And just when I’m ready to give up, admit for the first time in my life that I am helpless, divine intervention arrives unexpectedly in the form of a bread cart with a broken wheel.
Across the channel, a traffic jam ensues. The bridge crams on both sides with carts as well as heavy foot traffic zigzagging every which way. A freshly polished carriage halts abruptly, the driver yanking at the reins to avoid running over a pedestrian. The impact thrusts the back of the carriage against a flimsy railing that bends, unable to sustain the pressure. The carriage rattles, followed by the snapping of wood splitting in half. A woman screams just as another carriage collides with an oncoming wagon full of day laborers with pickaxes and forks. A serrated blade thrusts out of the open wagon, beheading a goat being led across the bridge. Blood splatters everywhere, drenching the ground as panic ensues. Two spirits use the altercation to enter a vagabond, who rouses the horses with a devilish sneer. The horses, tangled up in their reins, bray and stomp furiously when the inevitable occurs. The carriage balancing against the railing skids, breaking the barrier and tilting off the bridge.
Screams and panicked cries for help erupt like a tidal wave from every turn. Paralyzed, I watch as the driver leaps off the carriage. Rushing to the scene, a fishmonger has the good sense to cut the horse’s reins. It happens too fast. The carriage inching backward against the crumbling divider, the driver, thinking only of himself, rushing away. The horse stomping away frantically just as the carriage’s back wheels spin aimlessly in mid-air. Pedestrians watch with stunned faces; no one dares move. The last plank snaps as what’s left of the divider breaks, the impact causing the carriage to fall to its side and tumble over the railing, plunging into the icy cold water.
And just like that, an opportunity to escape has presented itself. Thinking only of my purity, I run as fast as the confines of my dress will allow. Neither my bodice nor my boots are designed for speed, but I don’t care. I fling myself on a passing cabbage cart and, through sheer willpower, hang on as it takes me further into the heart of the city. I cross over a bridge carrying me to the opposite end of the channel. A wide river safely between Tristan and me.
When the carriage slows, I hop off and straighten my frock. The shops seem more familiar but even as I walk away something twitches in my head. Slowing my breath, like an infatuated schoolgirl, I turn. Against the railing, pedestrians gather, pointing to the waters below. The carriage is almost completely submerged when I spot it: A gloved hand frantically knocking from inside the sinking carriage window.
Someone’s trapped inside.
My stomach drops, my feet moving forward to get a better look. Knowing I might very well regret it, I gain purchase and perch up above the retaining wall. When I lean forward, I see clearly that a woman is trapped inside.
My skin crawls with dread. The door’s jammed from the prior accident, leaving no means of escape. Desperately, I search for a familiar face, someone willing to do the impossible and rush to her rescue.
Without thinking it through, I climb up to the ledge and see none other than Tristan balancing on the bridge where the carriage slipped. He rips off his shirt and turns, our eyes connecting across the ravine. I want to scream at him to stop, but it’s no use. I’m too far away, and even if he did hear me, it wouldn’t stop what he’s about to do.
One thought pounds in my head: This man, this Tristan, is more Neliem than me.
As if reading my thoughts, he bows to me and then, with that wicked grin, tosses aside his shirt and dives head first into the raging waters.
After laboring through town, getting lost not once, but twice, I finally find my way back to the shop where I started my adventure mere hours ago. Deflated, I collapse into a seat next to Ralio. Two empty bottles of wine clatter under his seat, and several dirty dishes and a half loaf of bread lay piled before him.
I breathe a sigh of half relief and half shock. My temples throb, and the heel of one of my boots is loose. It seems absurd, but Ralio seems completely unaware of my comings and goings for the better part of the day. He’s stumbled against a cushioned seat with a lazy smile playing on his lips, his cheeks rosy after so much drink and good food. The server arrives with a roasted chicken and steaming hot potatoes, which he places with a polite bow before me.
Dutifully, Ralio, ignores the food and checks his timepiece, making a motion to adjust his jacket. “Did you find everything you needed?”
The thought of uttering one syllable makes every nerve in my body quiver. And, if I were completely honest, out of something other than fear. Me, who has escaped capture too many times to count, was nearly ensnared by nothing more than honeyed words and a pair of brilliant blue eyes.
My cheeks flush hot as I reach for a goblet of wine. Ralio’s eyes perk up, his speech slurred. “Quite a day, Madame.”
He stuffs a chicken leg into his mouth, sucking it to the bone.
Instead of answering, I gulp down my drink in one swig. It’s all the answer he’s getting. With a boisterous laugh, Ralio pours himself more wine and swigs it down, none the wiser.
It’s been three days since my adventure of adventures, and thankfully, Ezra’s still in the dark about how Neliem I truly am. Blissfully unaware of what he has sought as a future bride, I play the part of the innocent maiden before him, hoping my anxious fingers don’t give me away.
Under his careful gaze, which seems to follow my every step, I act the part, quiet and demure, keeping my secrets locked tighter than my hope chest, well hidden from prying eyes and loose lips. Never do I reveal the power I yield to attract the attention of a fellow Neliem, the one who sought to bed me in a neighboring inn.
But that is the least of my problems. The spirit of Neliem himself has awoken, possessing me, making my waking thoughts more irrational and reckless than normal. I practice my fighting skills before the first light of dawn, kicking, punching and stabbing bags of flour for hours, then feigning innocence when the cook demands to know who has been tampering with her food supplies.
Loosening my collars, I feel caged, trapped in the confines of the huge mansion, the adjoining gardens, the ponds, and even the apple orchard. I take scorching hot baths in attempts to squelch the flame and distract myself with long labored walks on the beach, finding my gaze drifting toward the city at unexpected times. I have sworn never to set foot there again.
The thought of running into Tristan, even by accident, sends my heart racing and my head spinning in a way that’s both intoxicating and infuriating: A fellow Neliem resides in Playa Del Sol, of all places. With all my willpower, I push away the image of Tristan ripping off his shirt and diving into the channel. Instead, I focus on how to somehow fit into the role that will be mine in a week’s time. A wife to an Untouchable.
The word sticks heavy to the back of my throat.
Ezra, gauging my mood the way a lion tamer does, is even more polite than usual. He takes me on a tour of his library and selects some appropriate reading material to calm my flailed nerves. The servants attempt to teach me how to weave a basket for the poor, but my fingers are all thumbs. I try and try and try until I explode, and strands of straw and ribbon fall everywhere. It’s no use.
I would no more fit into this role as than a painted monkey pretending to be queen.
My dreams haunt me nightly. Glistening blue eyes and Neliem himself ride up against a dark stormy moon. But this time, I search for him, rushing to find him, to feel the warmth of his flesh against mine.
During my end-of-the-week prayers, I find myself lighting a candle for Tristan right alongside Ezra and Etta’s. My rapid heartbeat betrays my innermost thoughts. Covering my face, I rush through the words, hoping for some semblance of peace that I cannot find.
At times I catch myself racing too fast down the stairs or walking too close to the cliff for Ezra’s liking. Without scolding me, he pulls me into the safety of his arms, which feel somewhat familiar but still foreign. What is more amazing is that I allow it. I allow his touch. A major feat. I close my eyes and pretend this is how it should be. Why this stranger has chosen me, of all maidens, will never cease to amaze me.
Other dramas, much more compelling, are unfolding within the household, making me cautious and apprehensive enough to try to rein in my spirits. Ezra’s receiving strange telegrams at all hours of the day, which has put him on high alert. His forehead furrows in unnaturally, and his lips form a hard line. On the telephone, which has just been installed, I catch phrases like ‘warehouse shipment.’ Something about a fire. And a fleet of ships that bring goods from foreign places that are not where they should be.
When I press, he forces a tight smile and tosses the correspondence in the fire so that I can’t later retrieve it and know for certain what is happening. He instead turns the tables and asks his own questions about my latest areas of interests, which I’d hoped to keep secret.
Some sniveling coward thought to expose my fondness of knives and other forms of cutlery. And because of this, all forms of weaponry have now been secured with lock and key that only Elsie is privy to. She wears it around her neck and shoots a hostile look at me when she sees me gazing toward her bosom for too long.
But still, I try for an ounce of freedom and bribe one of the stable boys to let me ride. I do so with more reckless abandon that I thought possible, causing the stable hand to laugh so hard that he has to hold onto his ribs. We ride early in the morning and race with more fervor, crashing into the waves so hard that the poor boy nearly falls off his saddle. Terrified that he might tattle and therefore ensure that all horses are also forbidden, I offer him another gold coin for his promised silence.
I have not only stooped to bribery. I am now an unofficial expert on lock-smithery, so I can secure my weapons of choice. I am beneath nothing. And revel in it.
But today, I cannot do one thing wrong. Today, I meet all of Ezra’s family, which sends cold shivers down my spine and makes my palms perspire so much that I have to change my gloves twice. We will be staying with them for the rest of the week, until the betrothal period ends, and our bond is sealed. At that point, we’ll be blessed, and I will have my ring.
But that’s not what keeps the hairs on the back of my neck standing.
It’s wondering what type of pagan household I’ll be subjected to. Even though Ezra assures me there are no familiar ghosts or spirits in any of his homes. He paid a priest years ago to vanquish all spirits, both good and bad. I still don’t look forward to meeting his family. Landis is in better spirits and visits without Tanya. I keep the secret overheard when I bumped into Henric, that Landis is casting her aside as we eat our supper.
But later, I overhear them talking in the den when they think I’ve retired to my bedchambers. Ezra’s brother will be a problem. One I’ll have to endure, knowing full well that he stopped short of murder to keep Ezra from going to Madera to select me as his intended.
Ezra goes to great lengths to convince me that it is nothing more than a formality. “Oriana, it is nothing. Don’t worry.”
I play with another locket he has given me. I have four now. They are kept on my dresser, polished every night until they glisten and catch the light just so. This one is in the shape of a heart, exactly like the image captured on the wall that I still insist is a lump of fat.
Two lovebirds engraved in gold.
He places it around my neck gently, clasping the chain, his eyes staring into mine in the mirror, sending tingles down my flesh. His breath is sweet, causing my mind to drift and my shoulders to relax.
“The week will go by quickly. There is really nothing to it.” But I catch a glimmer of sadness in his eyes and know there is more to it. Disapproval from his family might mean a one-way ticket back to Madera, this charade over and done.
“And your brother?”
Refusing to meet my gaze, he shrugs and laughs. “Knowing my brother, he won’t even show up.”
“Perhaps I should stay here.” I don’t say ‘home.’
Wrapping his arms around me, he makes a silly face to settle my nerves, but it doesn’t work.
I smile politely, knowing the truth. This is nothing less than a test. The hardest one I will ever undertake. After all that’s happened, I find that I do in fact care, if it means Ezra’s happiness. Ezra’s extremely fond of his family, especially his aunts and his Uncle Anton. He speaks of them often and always has a trace of a smile on his lips that’s not for show.
As we sit down to breakfast before leaving, instead of his correspondence taking his time like normal, he’s free of all business and hums a tune that I can’t quite place. The newspaper laid out in front of him rustles gently, the Prince on the cover with a beautiful lady.
“The princess is quite beautiful.”
He clears his throat. “She is not the princess.”
There are three grown children strategically posed before them. Attractive, well postured. The article states a state visit is planned in six months to Playa Del Sol, where the Prince will meet with his advisor’s families. The name Mercer jumps out.
“You know the Prince?” I startle.
He takes the paper, folding it. “Women in my family do not read the paper. But yes, my father was his advisor during the war. He secured Playa Del Sol and the neighboring islands.”
I remember Tristan pointing out the steeple where the Prince was held up.
“It’s nothing to worry about. It’s a state visit. There will be over a hundred people invited. We’ll dance …”
My stomach drops. “I don’t dance.”
“Never?” He seems amused by my confession.
“Only barbarians and pagans dance.”
“I dance quite well.” He stands up, displays a quick bow, and glides on his feet as I watch in awe. “I’ll teach you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“The Prince might request the honor of dancing with you.”
“There might be a second revolution if he does so.”
Ezra laughs so hard he needs to brace his weight on the back of the chair to keep from falling. I think it is, perhaps, the best time to propose something that has been on my mind for a few days. His good mood is all the incentive I need.
He returns to his paper as I choose to strike. Not like a cobra, but more like a demurred lamb with a fractured foot.
“I was wondering if I could have a personal maid.”
He lifts his head slightly from the paper, a look of amusement framing his handsome features. “You need another maid?”
Good; he didn’t scoff at once or mention money.
I spread the marmalade carefully on my toast, just the way I like it. Extra thick with the butter already melted. “One to help me bathe and help with personal necessities.” My voice drops at the word ‘necessities’ and my cheeks burn.
Tilting his head, his eyes scan up and down, gauging my mood. Then, he exhales, immediately softening. “Of course. I will personally see to it that a few girls are sent for your approval. Will one suffice?”
I twist my fingers, anticipation quivering in my gut. “I already have one in mind.” I force the words out. “Etta would be well suited …”
I don’t have a chance to finish before the paper comes crashing down on his plate, upsetting his toast and eggs. His eyes glare dark and stormy seas.
“She’s the girl from my former school, the one you spoke to …”
“I know perfectly well who she is, Oriana.” He turns to see if anyone’s within earshot, before studying me like he would a slug. My heart races, my pulse throbbing in my throat. “And it is perfectly out of the question.”
His verdict spoken, he returns to his paper, rustling the pages with a snap.
“Why not?”
“It’s illegal.” He doesn’t even bother to look at me, as if I’m some disobedient child that he can’t trouble himself with.
“Then why am I here?” The hurt leaks from my voice.
“Oriana.” His hand reaches for mine. It’s the first time in four days he’s touched me like this. Not a brotherly hug, but different. Intimate. Since the night I refused his request to sleep in his bed, he has been kind but distant. And always careful.
His voice is soothingly gentle, attempting to soften the blow of denying me one of the two things I desire most. The other is impossible. To see Tristan again and explain my strange disappearance before parting as friends.
“If I could, believe me, I would. For you, I would.” His eyes are pleading, but all I can think of is poor Etta starving amongst all those horrible Untouchables, and of the things they do and get away with, when another, more disturbing thought races through my mind.
“What about my mother?” Panic itches in my throat.
He glances behind him apprehensively. Only when he spots no one lurking about does he graze his teeth across his top lip. “Of course, I will arrange for you to see her, if that is what you wish, for that celebration thing.” He speaks of our Outcast holiday, where we fast and then celebrate for three days. It’s one of the few times there is plenty to eat, and all strife is momentarily forgotten.
