Neliem, page 6
I cling to one thread of hope. We are not quite married yet. Two weeks remain for bonding. The priest said as much.
But one glance from Ezra makes me question this. He doesn’t seem the type to wait.
An ocean away, my mother’s shrill voice haunts me. “Close your eyes. Pretend it isn’t happening.”
The boys with lustful eyes at school I could handle. And handle them I did. A swift kick to the groin or twist to the elbow was all it took to send them scampering like whimpering imbeciles to their mothers.
The more persistent ones got a jab to the eye too, as well as a few bruised ribs.
The pulse in my throat throbs. Bracing, I prepare to tear his eyes out, despite the fact that where he just touched me tingles a bit.
Ezra’s voice lifts above the crashing waves. “Have you been kissed before?”
His question catches me off guard. I hesitate. Once, in a different lifetime, I imagined a kiss. A soft one. Years and years ago by a boy who reminded me of the sea. The one who’d taught me to fight, to never give up. But that was just a dream. A fantasy.
Then I remember my dagger with the strange markings.
HAVAYA
“I … I …” My cheeks burn. Clumsily, my hands try to hide the blush burning on my face.
When I lift my chin, I see that his eyes are a calm blue. No storm. Just sky.
Sliding closer, he offers his hand. “Would you like to see your new home?”
The way he says this makes me freeze. My home. As if it belongs to me. I stare at the golden doorknob, unable to move. Without waiting for my answer, he opens the door with a quick turn of his wrist. Impulsively, I step back, allowing him to lead. I pray there are no more questions about kissing.
With only the glow of faint candlelight to light the way, the house seems like something out of an Untouchable fairytale. Walls made of marble hold small enclaves at every corner. The gods of plenty, Wealth, Prosperity, and Health, are all labeled accordingly. Hugganoffs have followed them for eternity. I was forced to study them at school, though I spent the time imagining ways of subduing them.
False gods. Idolatry.
Forbidden.
When I dare peer closer, there isn’t one idol occupying any enclave.
Just empty niches in the walls with pointless titles.
Strange. An Untouchable home without protection.
I finger one enclave suspiciously, thinking perhaps it’s a trick, and find a bit of dust clinging to my finger. My eyesight hasn’t failed me. Not one deity of deception occupies his throne. Instead, the small candles my people use for the end-of-the-week blessing as we take our day of rest lie about. By the looks of it, there are enough for months.
Not sure what to make of any of this, I turn around. The house is crammed full of works of art. I squint at one painting of the sea and a field bursting with flowers. Nothing depicting debauchery of any sort.
My shoulders relax.
Taking his time, Ezra guides me through the corridor, allowing me to process the house. Every door has been flung open as if to say, ‘I have no secrets, come take a peek.’ I frown. This was also planned. Every aspect of today was calculated to the smallest detail: my dress, which I still wear, the ceremony, and now this. His home, with too many rooms to count, prods me to trust him, to forget everything I know and to believe that he’s the exception to the rule.
I dig my nails hard into my palm so that I don’t forget exactly who he is.
Gliding smoothly out a glass door, he lingers in front of an enclosed balcony over-looking the massive cliffs. The clouds covering the moon lift on cue. Moonbeams glisten through stained-glass windows, illuminating every pathway in waves of muted light.
He turns his back to the wonderment, his gaze fixed on me. It takes everything in me not to step closer and inhale the sea and float away.
“Take all the time you need.”
I stop my reverie to focus on Ezra, who’s as much a mystery as when I first laid eyes on him. I scrutinize every detail: his broad shoulders, his tilted head with a halo of blond hair that needs to be trimmed, if not cut. Outcast men never wear their hair like barbarians.
“Your hair’s too long,” I say without thinking.
He smiles, turning his gaze toward the sea before chuckling. “You should cut it, then.”
I gasp at the fact that he would arm me with a pair of sheers. As if having no clue who I really am, he strides casually to my side. I turn to what appears to be the living room and try not to gawk at all the marvels: fine furnishings, marble stairs, windows with screens and drapes, and thick carpets. A rich man’s home.
My home.
Every inch of it screams one word. Untouchable.
And I know one thing: I do not belong in this house with these things or this man who thinks I should cut his hair.
He hovers closer, startling me. “You don’t like my hair?”
I shake my head, then remember how I wondered how it might feel. Soft and silky, probably, like rose petals.
Ashamed of my wayward thoughts, I lower my gaze. “I don’t know.”
It’s a half lie. And considering everything I’ve gone through, it’s allowed. Part of me still expects to wake up from this dream where I live in a mansion. None of this can be real. Not for the girl everyone calls ‘Neliem.’
“It’s a lot to take on, at first. But you’ll get used to it.” He steps closer so that I catch a glimpse of his bashful smile. “I did.”
His fingers reach for me, lingering dangerously close to my arm. I know what he wants, for me to grasp his hand and feel his pulse, which I could now probably identify easily. It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve been tracking his pulse like I would an animal I found injured in the woods. It seems familiar, the steady beat of his heart, the way his Adam’s apple bobs and his throat constricts. I’m not sure when I started noticing; perhaps in the carriage. His gaze lifts upstairs just as his breath catches. Instantly, I realize why. The bedroom must be upstairs.
A rush of adrenaline sweeps through me, shaking me momentarily off balance. Everything’s happening too fast. It’s too dark to get my bearings. And I’ve lost my nail. That was inexcusable. Ezra’s touch startles me, guiding me slowly upstairs as if I were blind and in need of help. As we move through a hallway adorned with several sculptures that I can’t distinguish, I stop to stare at one that looks like a mother holding a child. Ezra tugs at me urgently, and although I can’t read the expression on his face, I don’t have to. His heart hammers harder, a bead of sweat escaping behind his ear.
Before me, wide open double doors reveal a bedroom.
My stomach falls.
The bed is enormous. Outside, the cool sea breeze drifts through the French doors, the moon full and high and much brighter than before.
My feet, like lead, are too heavy to move. The bed stares at me, taunting me. It could fit twelve people, though I don’t think that is Ezra’s intention. In this case, this bed is only meant for one skinny girl with an enamored suitor.
I stammer, for the first time in my life too afraid to act. This is it. What my mother and aunts have been warning me about since my first blood. Husband and wife relations.
But even now, I refuse to whimper like a coward. Instead, I focus out the open patio doors to a balcony that leads to the sea, where I might possibly find refuge. I step cautiously outside, counting the steps to the ledge. The crisp air sprays a faint wave of seawater, and I wonder how much rope it would take to scale the walls to freedom. I close my eyes and breathe it in, cursing myself for not eating enough.
Days ago, marriage had been but a dream that had evaded me. Now, I’ve transformed from a discarded spinster to the betrothed in less than a blink of an eye. I think of the school matron’s pale face, the plastered smiles, the blatant looks of scorn. They thought nothing of me.
Neliem gnaws.
Ezra approaches hesitantly, almost missing a step. It’s as if I am some wild animal he strives to tame and make domestic. Perhaps this is all I really am for him. A challenge.
He steps closer still, and I can hear his tiny inhales and steady exhales, as if he was falling asleep. I think of a baby in a basket, slumbering sweetly. The thought relaxes me, so much so that I barely register the touch of his fingers trailing down my arm, guiding me back inside.
He lets go of my hand only for as long as it takes to close the patio doors and return to my side.
Instead of resuming his previous position, he sits on the edge of the bed. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head, lying again. “No.”
“There’s fruit in the bowl.” He motions before taking off his shoes. “I would have someone bring you up a tray, but,” he sighs, “I’ve let the staff off for the evening.”
He says the last part too casually, as if it wasn’t of any consequence. There can be only one reason the staff is gone. No witnesses to hear my screams for mercy while I fight him off.
“Is that right?” My voice manages to find that edge that I’m so famous for. I flex my fingers, but when he approaches, he sticks an apple in my palm.
I stare at the fruit, my hunger getting the better of me. I take a bite. It’s so sweet I might be biting into candy. I take another bite and before I know it, the apple is down to a thin core.
“Thank you.”
He nods and returns to the bed with a raised eyebrow. He knew I was lying about not being hungry. So, he’s not as stupid as he looks. And I suspect under all those rich man clothes, he’s extremely fit. I was mistaken before when I underestimated his strength. He’s no gazelle, he’s more like a lion. Which means he’s fast. Attempting to subdue him might not work.
But I am also strong. Fit and cunning. Give me a dagger, and he might be a worthy opponent, not someone who goes running to his mother with the slightest cut dripping blood.
I’m so engrossed at the thought of spilling blood that I almost don’t hear him when he begins to speak. “I went back to your school last year for a few weeks.” He waits for me to say something. When I remain silent, he lets out a small moan, his neck sagging. “You probably don’t remember.”
The look on his face is one of sheer defeat. Either he was expecting something to happen or he didn’t take into account something crucial. Once again, his remarks have caught me off guard. And I realize two things at once. He might be strong, but something at the very core of his foundation is frail. Breakable. Two very conflicting parts of his personality.
“I don’t talk to … Untouchables.” My tongue catches at the last word.
His face jerks up. “You must never use that word here. Understood?”
The alarm behind his words piques my interest. “Why? That’s what you are.”
Getting up, he shuts the blinds on the furthest window. “We don’t call ourselves that. Only your people do. It’s a dead giveaway.”
“Because I’m no longer Outcast.” My throat dries.
“In two weeks, you won’t be.” He’s thinking how the priest wouldn’t process the paperwork, offering an easy out.
The thought makes me sick. “How can that be?”
I steal a quick glance. He stands there, the master of his own fate, never knowing a moment’s worth of pain or suffering. Fed, praised for accomplishing nothing, and arrogant to boot. Nothing like me. Which begs an answer to the one question plaguing me since he first offered his hand.
Why me?
Reading my thoughts, he answers, “You’re the same as me. No different.”
He pauses long enough to gauge my reaction.
Except what he says isn’t true and never will be. We’re absolutely nothing alike. Not only in looks, but in the fact that his ancestors came from some brilliant cloud in the sky and trampled all over the earth searching for the nectar of the gods. Not finding it, they instead chose to oppress my people and anyone else they came into contact with. My people never descended from a cloud. But there was a cloud, one they not-so-wisely chose to spend forty years following in a desert in search of some promised land. Regretfully, they later found themselves scattered like lost sheep, and a small remnant made their way to the island of Madera.
Some promised land. Starvation and servanthood. And countless Untouchables.
Ezra sits down and waits for some reaction. Maybe he thinks that I should be grateful. But nothing could be further from the truth. All I want is to go home and forget this ever happened. My mother, I hope, will not cast me out.
“You are the same as me,” he repeats before tilting his head toward the glistening moonlight as if debating something crucial. When he looks back up, that spark of energy between us flares. The one I can’t place. His voice strains, “Anyone who says differently will have to contend with me, and my family.”
To stress his point, Ezra yanks off his socks, tossing them carelessly aside. One hits a chair, the other falls on the floor. Appalled, I stare at his careless act. My mother would’ve pulled my hair if I’d dared such an act of disobedience.
I openly glare at him, wondering if he can detect my scorn in this dim light. I also wonder if he has any clue to the depth of my hatred for him and his people, although he can’t possibly understand, or he wouldn’t be sitting right before me completely unarmed. There’s not even anyone to come to his aid when I stab him with the scissors, he so confidently thinks I should use to cut his hair.
My feet move closer. “Why did you pick me?”
Before I throw him off the balcony, I need to know the answer.
“It’s a long story.” He rubs his eyes, unaware that each breath brings me closer to my target.
“I have time.”
He abruptly shakes his head and stands. “You’re not ready to hear it.”
Even in bare feet, he looms over me. My head barely reaches his chest. Taken aback, I stammer, “When then?”
It comes off too soft, as if I’m asking for permission. Quickly, I realize my mistake. I lost my advantage the moment he stood up.
“Soon.” His lips curl, his voice gentle like the breeze. “Trust your feelings, Oriana …”
He speaks in riddles. I trust no one. This means he has no clue what I’m capable of. One simple thrust to his chest and a head bump and he’d be unconscious for the better part of the day. By the time his servants found him, I’d be long gone.
I smile sweetly, edging closer. Without warning, Ezra unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt and gazes longingly at me. My focus shifts to the tiny cluster of curly hairs on his chest. Skillfully, I crack my knuckles, reminding myself to be careful not to get tangled in the shirt when I rip it off him to tie up his hands.
For a second, I debate which way will be the most painless. The thought stuns me. Never have I wished not to inflict the maximum amount of harm on an Untouchable.
My temples throb. Rubbing them, I try to stare anywhere but into his eyes, but it’s no use. Something about Ezra troubles me. It takes me a moment to figure it out. An annoying question causes me to betray my thoughts. “Why did you come back to the village school last year?”
“I thought it was obvious.” He sighs, then laughs. “To see you again.”
I stop. See me again? My scalp prickles like I’ve fallen in a thistle patch. The sensation spreads down my neck. This fool speaks in too many riddles. And he’s lying. Before today, we’d never spoken.
Ezra casually collects his shoes and socks and stands by the patio doors in deep contemplation. I don’t make my move. It’s the perfect opportunity. His back faces me, and there are no witnesses. He’s unarmed and distracted.
My feet feel as though they’re encased in cement. As it is, I can barely manage to move my hands. The way I’m panting, anyone could hear my breathing from four rooms away. This is all wrong.
I can’t hurt him.
It’s not like before when I was hunted. That was self-defense. The most alarming thought yet crosses my mind. He’s Untouchable, yet he doesn’t wish me harm.
Impossible.
The fist I’ve been clenching relaxes. I take a step back, wanting to run, to escape this mayhem of confusion.
I need to get home. Now. And never look back.
He moves swiftly. All grace and perfection. I’m so distracted by his stride that it takes me a moment too long to notice that the door closes and he’s facing me. And with it, my chance to escape is narrowly missed.
I wince. “Why am I here?”
“I … ” He stops, tilting his head in that way that means he’s not sure how to answer. He does it a lot. Or perhaps, it’s only with me that he’s not sure how to speak. He had no difficulty ordering his cousins about, or the ferryman who demanded six coins to ensure the wrath of sea gods didn’t drown us. His eyes burn into mine like candles. It makes me shake in a way I never once have before. Not in anger, not in hatred. Something else. Something worse.
“Who kissed you?” His voice has lost some of its sweetness. The timbre is definitely darker and slightly intimidating.
I take a precautionary step back, feeling the heat intensify. It’s a game. By asking me this, he wants control, which I’ll never give.
I force out a laugh. “An Untouchable; jealous? Who would have thought?”
With effort, Ezra maintains his stance, the muscles in his arms flinching. I can tell by the way little beads of sweat glisten against his temples that I’ve crossed one of his lines. He steps alarmingly closer, his eyes blazing. “I’ve told you not to use that word. And I’m still waiting for your answer, Oriana.”
The way he says my name shows he’s serious. Good. He’s not all sweet smiles and longing looks. That he actually cares about the boy from my half dream who once kissed me makes it all the more intriguing.
“Who is he?” This time, his eyebrow arches in a way that some people might find menacing. Or attractive.
“I …” For some unexplainable reason, the memory’s too painful to speak of. Too raw. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that the tears don’t spill, knowing the truth that I’ve denied for so long. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a dream. It was so bittersweet, so real. And so unbearably painful.
