Neliem, page 17
“That’s why I’m here,” I insist, and someone laughs behind me. Feeling bolder, I take a sip of my brandy, knowing I’ll need something much stronger to get through this. The brandy glass is especially thick and heavy. I envision breaking it and cutting off the tongue of the fiend who mocked me. I laugh, then smile. “Plenty to do here.”
“You must have such interesting hobbies.” Aunt Cora shifts her eyes toward another woman, who prods her on. “Do you crochet? All my nieces crochet so nicely …”
Another senior aunt chimes in; I think she’s Aunt Hilda, but I’m not sure. I overheard the servants mentioning how Aunt Hilda rings for her liquor bottles in her rooms to be amply stocked. Interesting, as this lady seems quite sober at the moment.
But I know only too well, with Untouchables, appearances can be deceptive. They excel in deception. The sweetest-faced Untouchable schoolgirl would have a knitting needle tucked in her boot used to poke at me during assemblies, where for the smallest infraction, including squirming, we Outcast would meet with the faithful whip. All the while, I had to sit there and take it, swallowing down the pain.
A moment too late, I recognize this question for what it really is. It’s bait. Just to show off how dull and tedious I really am. How by Ezra marrying someone of my stature, he’d be making the worst possible error of judgment.
“I have many hobbies; crochet is unfortunately not one of them.” I’m positive that Aunt Hilda would be shocked to see what I can do with a crochet needle. Especially to the girl that thought she would get away poking me fifteen times in the back.
Henric, who’s back to being his arrogant self, sneers, “What are your hobbies?” I seriously doubt if a tone could be more blatantly menacing. He doesn’t even pretend with the back-handed niceties that Untouchables are notorious for.
Ezra’s hand slides down my waist. It’s both a protective and defensive stance. Before I can turn and nod my gratitude, one of the uncles shakes his head, obviously disgusted over the display of affection.
Henric softens his tone by a fraction, “That is, if you are in the possession of any.”
What he’s doing is nothing less than taunting a starving dog with a bone. And what happens next is only fair. I have teeth. He’s asked for it, and I will be more than happy to deliver.
I glance toward Cassia, who’s remained unnaturally quiet and still whenever Henric speaks. Like the bully she is, she’d like nothing better than to join in with this cruel game and show off her expert skills of debasement. Instead, she flinches away. When she lowers her chin to sip her tea, I see a large red welt beneath her lace collar. I stare back at Henric, his handiwork no doubt. And with that, I remove the final barrier out of the equation.
“Well, I’m not as skilled as some, but I do have a talent or two.”
Henric snickers, taking the bait and having no idea how I would love to beat the living daylights out of him, leaving him black and blue. The only question is where and which tools will be utilized to inflict the most pain possible before he passes out.
Ezra catches my predatory gaze toward Henric and shifts in his seat, drawing closer.
Neliem stirs ever so subtly, his breath fueling me. Slowly, I allow my lips to form a smile that must make me appear possessed because an elderly aunt starts frantically fanning herself.
“And yet you avoid the question so tactfully. Pray, what are you hiding?” Henric baits.
“I suppose, Henric, that you would like me to answer that I have a deep love and appreciation for cooking and cleaning, though sadly to say, I possess neither quality. But,” I grin like an imbecile, “I admit I love a good fight.”
A few relatives gasp, and one lady chokes on her tea, the look on her face worth the argument that will no doubt commence the second Ezra and I are alone.
Ezra tightens his grip, but I wiggle away to scratch an itch which doesn’t exist.
“I’m afraid no one was expecting that answer. I apologize.” I feign innocence.
Cassia looks as pale as a ghost, and I stifle my laugh. At my side, Tanya glares as if she didn’t hear me correctly, “A good fight? I don’t understand … it’s so brutal. Fighting, I detest it.”
So is having Untouchables torment you for most of your life, I wish to scream.
Landis, who’s remained deadly silent, finally breaks. “Well, I also love a good fight.”
Some of the men chuckle. But the uncle closest to him playfully taps his shoulder to still him. Another girl cousin giggles and from the corner of my eye, I see Tristan step into the room. I’m not sure how long he’s been there, and frankly, I don’t care. My chest stills, relief washing over me.
“As do I, as well,” Tristan adds loudly as he pours himself a rather large brandy.
But Henric isn’t through with me. “Fighting has its merits. At times, quite exhilarating. Overpowering one’s opponent. Oppressing them to the point of submission.”
I bet. “I’m sorry, did I say good fight? I meant to say a fair fight with equally matched opponents.”
He shifts his stance. In two strides, I could knock him down and have his head in a vise, crashing it down on the coffee table, slicing the back of his head in half. But if he moves slightly to the right, the door could be used to slam his skull against the wall. The two equally appealing scenarios are making it difficult to choose.
A wave of unease shifts through the room. Aunt Cora blushes, stammering, “Do you have any collections?” Her smile is tense, every pound of flesh quivering in her corset that must’ve taken three maids to lace. “I collect spoons. All sorts.”
“I am not acquainted with spoon collections.” I sip my tea to refrain from saying any more on the subject.
She frowns to an elderly woman, who stirs her ginger tea, glaring at me like a hawk about to swoop down to capture a rodent. Catching the look, Tristan rolls his eyes, a soft smile curving those full lips.
Tanya exclaims, “I adore dolls.”
I recall her wide assortment of dolls from her room.
“I’m afraid I have little interest in dolls.”
“And what will my rich cousin be buying his wife, pray tell?” Henric is a bastard, and the first chance I get, I will be throwing him from the stairs, where he will hopefully break not one, but both of his legs, and possibly an arm. I’d pay good money to see the next fight he has with Cassia, which I wager, due to his injuries, she will easily win.
“I collect weapons.” The words spring out of my mouth before I can stop them. The air thickens at once, the room growing awkwardly still. No one moves, no one breathes. Aunt Cora’s teacup is frozen before her round face as her three chins tremble.
Someone behind her gasps.
I elaborate, “All sorts.” I wink at Ezra, hoping he finds some humor in my confession. “Perhaps my rich husband will buy some for me. They didn’t let me bring any from Madera.”
I bat my eyes like a stupid schoolgirl. “I don’t understand exactly why.”
Ezra whispers loud enough for anyone to hear, “Under no circumstance will your rich husband be arming you in any possible way.”
Unaffected, I serve myself a large portion of almond cake clustered in dried figs.
Someone laughs hard. When I look up, I’m relieved to see it’s Tristan. Tears glisten in his eyes. “I would love to see your weapon collection.”
“And I would love to show it to you,” I respond. “That is, when I have one to show.”
Tanya reaches for her slice of cake, pursing her lips. “I detest weapons. They’re so violent.”
I offer, “I know; you like dolls,” and everyone laughs at her. She blushes and turns to Landis, who ignores her but stares at me in awe.
Aunt Cora tenses before finally releasing her ironclad grip on her teacup. “She’s teasing us. A joke. Tristan, don’t encourage her; she had me frightened there for a second.”
Ezra hides a smile, and I can’t help it, I laugh and make a face at him. When he smirks, I stick out my tongue.
Henric isn’t finished; he has to have the last word, “You must have earned so many nicknames with your quick wit, Oriana. Pray tell us some …”
I cover my mouth politely as I eat my cake. “I only had one nickname my entire life.”
Tristan looks up, intrigued as well.
“Neliem.” And everyone bursts out in laughter. It’s contagious; I laugh along as Ezra shakes his head once and stirs his tea.
Aunt Cora clutches her heart. “That’s from our history, Oriana, not a nickname for a girl as sweet as you.” She sips some tea with a forced smile, explaining, “Neliem is the god of war.”
“That’s Feret; Neliem is not a god, rather a spirit …” Landis offers. “With all sorts of tricks up his sleeve, if I recall.”
“I might have some of those as well,” I murmur under my breath.
“More of a phantom, roaming the earth …” Another uncle corrects. “Once a prankster … yes, held rank in an Embrian court legend has it.”
I press my lips tightly to refrain from uttering another word while Henric slithers to a corner to sulk. It seems that I’ve won everyone over except for him. It’s obvious, and I relish in the power it brings me. Perhaps breaking only one leg will suffice. Imagining him hobbling around in crutches, at the mercy of others, is somewhat comforting.
“Must have had a ton of admirers with that wit,” he snaps.
“Not really,” I snap back, before I remember to flush and bat my eyes.
“Don’t be coy.”
Ezra and Tristan stand up at once, speaking at the same time, “Enough, Henric.”
Henric widens his eyes innocently. But he’s anything but innocent. He’s a brute that beats up his defenseless wife. Until I notice the red gash just under his neck, a definite claw mark by none other than his carnivorous mate.
Impressed, I raise an eyebrow. It seems that Cassia isn’t that innocent after all.
Not lifting his gaze, Henric whirls his brandy glass between his fingers. “Just asking a question; if she’s too embarrassed, she should just say.”
He’s daring me. Provoking me to confess to something lewd and unflattering.
Unashamed, I stare back at him. “I only had one.” I smile at everyone. “I was eleven.”
Aunt Cora places her fat hand over mine, in what might be mistaken as motherly affection if she wasn’t preoccupied with the butterknife too close to me for her liking. “How sweet. He must’ve adored you.”
“He did, and I him.” My heart beats like a thousand butterflies, and I have to stop what I was about to say to press my palm against my chest and swallow down the stone in my throat. Why does it still hurt so much to talk about Za-Za? And just like that, I see his fat face with three little warts on his jaw. His frizzy white hair was like wool, so thick my fingers would get tangled in it.
Tanya, finally interested in something I have to say, raises her voice, “What was his name?’
“Za-Za.” I say it without thinking. And once again, the room grows deadly quiet. Three things happen at once; Aunt Cora bursts into tears, Tristan flinches, and Ezra closes his eyes as if in prayer. Uncle Aton hands Aunt Cora a lace handkerchief, which she uses to fiercely blow her nose.
“That’s so very sweet.”
Tristan’s face turns ashen, his fist clenching open and closed. He’s looking for something to pounce on. I know the feeling. Seething rage. For a moment, I believe that he’s angry with me. Before I can move, he stomps out of the room. Ezra leans in and plants a gentle kiss to my temple. It’s the first time he’s shown any such affection publicly.
“Thank you, Oriana.” But I’m not sure why he’s thanking me. Stunned, I catch Cassia squirming, sea green with envy, her reptilian face more pronounced than usual. Part of me wants to ask her why in a thousand years she would envy me. The other part wants to stomp on the viper.
Henric sulks like a small child, and I think back to when I saw him in town at the teashop with that young girl who’d verbally whipped him to the point of submission. As if she held his very life in her hands. I shiver just thinking about that look of loss rendering him completely defenseless.
I push the thought away, sure of only one thing.
Nothing makes sense with these people.
Cassia stiffly gets up and leaves. I can only assume that everyone’s retiring to their rooms to rest.
Reluctantly, I follow the ladies, who chat merrily away. Like a gaggle of geese, we stroll past the foyer, everyone all aflutter about the newest fashion trend of having lace boots. Conveniently, we allow the men to congregate in the den to light cigars and talk more about whatever it is that they talk about outside the company of women. In what I can only assume is motherly affection, Aunt Cora takes my hand, pressing my small hand against her milky flesh. She points emphatically over the wide assortment of family portraits neatly framed on the walls.
I have only once had my picture taken. A year ago, in a borrowed dress that I had to wash and press myself and return the next day. The girl, a friend of my mother’s, complained openly that I hadn’t pressed it right and tossed it on the floor in a fit. When I had crouched down to pick up the dress, the girl had slapped me so hard that I saw stars before my eyes. In a flash, unaware how I did it, I had my dagger to her throat.
She left me alone after that.
And let me keep the dress.
“This is Great-Uncle Gustave, the patriarch of us all.”
Someone behind me whispers, “More like tyrant.”
Intrigued, I stare at the golden-framed faces of blond Untouchables. They all look alike. By the faded paper, I assume some are deceased relatives, but then I recognize the faces of the numerous cousins and aunts and uncles gathered to inspect me.
Aunt Cora’s voice lightens when she points out one of a distinguished man. “That’s Tristan and Ezra’s father. Rol Mercer. A trusted advisor to the Prince.”
“He’s very handsome.” I’m not flattering her; it’s the truth. Both boys resemble him; tall and muscular with broad foreheads and identical noses. But the black and white photo fails to capture the glimmering blue eyes that have the effect of rendering me speechless at times and running for my life the very next.
“And, of course, our Tristan. How I wish he would find a nice girl and settle down.” She waves her hand toward a picture of a tow-headed boy of perhaps seven with dimples and a smile I could identify anywhere. I stare a little too long, wondering what random thought he was thinking as the photo was taken.
Cassia striding passed us, her perfect nose in the air, sneers, “Don’t count on it.”
I wince, knowing the truth. He did find a nice girl, who shattered any hope of happiness by lying to him.
Aunt Cora holds up a picture of a fat baby, cooing, “Who would have thought Ezra would have turned out so handsome? His father worried that he was …” she lowers her voice, her eyes darting downstairs, where the men are gathered. “Disfigured as a child. But he was just fat.”
Standing in the threshold to the den, Ezra, in the midst of conversing with his uncles, catches my gaze and smiles. My heart skips a beat, probably due to the heated inquisition. Without meaning to, I find myself smiling back, curious about his promise to never arm me. Surely, he didn’t mean self-defense tools.
Another picture is thrust into my hands. A shiver as cold as ice runs down my spine.
The picture is of Za-Za. My Za-Za, with his triple chins and frizzy hair and warts. I brace myself against the railing just as my legs give out, almost dropping the photo.
“Don’t worry. Most of the cousins at one point were fat. We called it healthy back then.”
Another aunt remarks, “After the fever, he lost all that weight. His poor father fretted over that child … it would have killed him if he had died, like so many.”
Aunt Hilda sighs as if the weight of the world presses on her. “Rol was smart; the second he heard word of the fever outbreak, he brought Ezra home. Saved his life … if only we’d been wiser …”
Unable to lift my gaze from the picture, I gasp, “Za-Za …”
When I lift my eyes, Ezra, from below the stairs, smiles that crooked grin I’ve always found strangely familiar. My heart stops beating. It can’t be the same person. Za-Za died saving me. I saw the rows of coffins nailed shut, the Untouchables mourning, the stench of pungent incense choking the air. It could only have meant one thing.
Ezra steps out to the foyer, curiosity on his brow. My vision blurs, his face becomes fuller, his hair not straight … and …
“Look how handsome he is now. Your children will be beautiful,” Aunt Hilda exclaims a little too loudly, making me shudder.
Aunt Cora reaches to touch one of my curls. “Just don’t overfeed them.”
But I don’t hear another word. My head spins in circles and my knees cave in right before everything goes black.
Once, I knew a boy with the heart of a lion, who smelled of the sea.
Za-Za was the boy who even the Untouchables hated. And he was one of them. By birthright a full Hugganoff. Well, sort of. He looked like them. Same color eyes and white hair. But he was fat, with three plump chins, freckles, and three warts under his ear. Even the teachers seemed to grimace if he came too close. At lunchtime, he would sit by himself on a bench and eat four bags of food, eyeing everyone’s lunch with a half-starving look.
“Who’s that boy?” I asked out of curiosity one day. His hair had caught my attention, reminding me of someone I couldn’t quite place.
School had just started for the season, and he was the only new face. I was intrigued enough to single him out. Apart from his physical appearance, for some strange reason, he seemed different than the others. He was never mean or nasty. He spoke in a voice so soft that you would have to strain your ears to hear. And the fact that the other Untouchables seemed to reject him made him seem less menacing. Even though I didn’t understand how the Untouchables would reject their own kind. Outcasts always stuck together. It didn’t make sense to my eleven-year-old brain.
