Neliem, page 8
“How is it that you loved him so much that even now you can’t …” He inches closer, and I dart back. Without meaning to, Ezra has dug up my past. A past best left buried. Blood pulsates near the surface of my wound, threatening to erupt at any moment.
I have to leave before I start crying again. It all comes back to Za-Za, the boy I can’t have who still owns my heart. And perhaps even more.
“I’m tired, Ezra. I need to go to bed.”
His hand finds mine. “Stay in my bed tonight. Please; I swear I won’t touch you.”
“I must look a mess.” I turn away as my hand finds the doorknob.
“No.” Sorrow pierces his voice. “Never have you looked more beautiful.”
My hand trembles as I close the door.
That night. I dream of wind and rain and dark stormy clouds. I dream of butterfly wings, fluttering slower and slower until they stop beating, and of two children, doomed never to see the sun.
My very first thought when I open my eyes is of Ezra. I wish he had waited to leave until I got up, so we could discuss what had happened, or rather what hadn’t happened, last night. The poor servant girl is missing. No sign of her. When I finally get downstairs, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt over her poor timing. It had been my fault for unlocking his door.
If it hadn’t been for her intrusion something definitely would have happened between us. Was he angry, frustrated, or worse? Was he debating sending me back home without a second thought? There’s still time. Eleven days.
The most troubling thought is that I’m not sure which would be worse. Staying here with Untouchables or being sent home in disgrace to face my mother and a sound beating.
The servant girl whose name I can never remember, Velaria, appears without warning. I thought for sure she had been fired after last night. I’m not sure how she sneaks up on me so suddenly; either I’m getting lax in my stealth skills, or she’s part phantom. Either way, I need to keep my eyes open around her.
I narrow my eyes into slits and ignore the breakfast before me, which has gone cold. Velaria’s face is freshly washed, but I detect a slight puffiness around her eyes and nose, indicating that she cried herself to sleep.
She steps forward and bows, her voice hoarse, “The dresses are here. Whenever you’re ready, my lady.”
I’m not in the mood for dresses or ribbons or lace. Anxiety builds in my gut, and I know why. I’ve stopped my training and found my belly soft for the first time in my life this morning. Reluctantly, I abandon breakfast, stuffing two rolls in my pocket, and stride into the parlor to inspect what Ezra has spent a minor fortune on.
Namely, disguising me to pass as Untouchable.
Frantango and his dressers wait patiently in the smaller receiving room for me to finish my morning tea so that I might marvel over his accomplishments and compliment him ceaselessly. On close inspection, two of the dresses are passable, the stitching not up to my mother’s high standards but good considering the rush order. But the other two are plainly hideous. A different patch of inferior material has been attached to the bottom of one of them, as if I wouldn’t notice. Far worse is the last dress, which gives me the chills. Based on what my mother worked on previously, it’s something from last year’s style with too much lace, which doesn’t complement the trim. And the fabric’s faded.
“These two are fine, not excellent by any means, but passable. These two are an insult.”
I toss them aside as if they smelled of spoiled egg. The highly-paid tailor frets, glaring at his assistants as if they’re to blame for his sloppy workmanship. They might have been the ones sewing until the dawn’s first light, but he’s the one in charge.
“And I would suggest, Señor Frantango, that if you wish to be employed by us, you consider this a warning. Your motto states no two women will be dressed alike. So, never bring me some leftover dresses as if I work at a fish shop and don’t know the difference.”
Not waiting for his reaction, I turn heel and leave him with his mouth hanging. Elsie, the cook, and the other staff have overheard, no doubt, and are wondering exactly who Ezra has brought home to be his wife.
I think of one word. Neliem. That’s who.
Velaria bows respectfully, holding a small knapsack containing the coins I requested last night. “Master Ezra left this for you.”
I weigh the sack in my hand. Thirty gold coins. Exactly what I needed. My fingers twitch, eager for some diversion from this tedious morning of inspecting frocks.
Velaria’s bulging eyes widen, her voice hitching, “Would the lady of the house be in need of anything else?”
I nod. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. Bring me every sharp knife you can find.”
Velaria’s face turns white. “And why would you be in need of knives, my lady?”
I am already unbuttoning my dress as I climb the stairs toward Ezra’s bedroom in search of a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a shirt he wouldn’t mind gaining a slight tear or two in.
Without stopping, I call out, “I need to do some target practice.”
On the bumpy ride to town, I find myself more anxious than I ought to be. The soles of my new boots tap anxiously and my gloved hands, smelling of lavender, can find no rest. Even in my newly-fitted gown that makes me look like an Untouchable, Neliem’s wiggling to be set free and do something daring and unpredictable.
The target practice was exhilarating, but it didn’t come close to releasing the built-up tension from last night. I practiced several times with the knives, suspecting that Elsie was holding back on me. Surely a man of Ezra’s wealth and power is in possession of more than ten butcher knives.
But regardless, I hit the haystacks head on and dislodged all ten bottles the stable boys kept posting for me. They scurried around like kitchen rats, cheering wildly with each blow.
One even asked me to hit an apple off his head. I hesitated when I saw the color drain from Elsie’s face, and promised the ambitious boy that we would try later, away from prying eyes.
The coach comes to a halt in the middle of a cobblestone courtyard surrounded by small shops bursting with wares. Coffee and spices and bronze pots and pans and fancy bonnets and dresses. Oh my, the dresses, in creams and peaches and pinks, in silks and satins with matching parasols. Marveling at all the sights, I fling the carriage doors open, not waiting for Ralio to help me down.
He rushes ahead, waving his arms as if I’ve overstepped myself by simply opening my own carriage door and taking two steps unassisted. Although he doesn’t do much other than eat and drink and sing, when he drives, he seems to take it seriously, especially when it comes to my safety. I sadly suspect that it has something to do with Ezra’s orders.
Ignoring him, I point to the closest shop, just ten steps away. “I will be in there for an hour.”
He scrutinizes the tacky jewelry shop with a lifted brow. “An hour?”
The pungent stench of bitter herbs turns our attention down the alleyway, where strange fumes funnel through the entry of a darkened shop. His eyes bulging, he crosses himself over and over.
“I have no interest in sorcery.” I hand him a coin and try to sound as innocent as possible. “Have a drink; I don’t need you to accompany me. If the packages are too big, I’ll send word for you.”
And I smile. The one I’ve been practicing in the mirror. I almost have it.
He nods toward the tavern across from the shop. “I’ll have one glass and check up on you.”
“Thank you, Ralio.” I scurry away before he changes his mind, knowing one thing for certain. One glass translates to two bottles for Ralio. With such a diversion, I’ll have ample time to do what I need and be back in time to help him up the carriage and drive us both home.
Trying to steady my steps and not appear too eager, I approach the shop, remembering to turn around and wave. He narrows his eyes, probably thinking about my earlier target practice and wondering what else I might have up my sleeve.
Hurrying inside, I approach the saleslady and buy the first thing I see: a scarf sewn with glittering gems. I have it placed on hold and give her instructions on where to have it sent before asking a slew of my own questions. Namely, I need to know how to get to where I’m going and be back in time to avoid rousing suspicion.
The salesgirl’s the friendly sort. She smiles a bit too much, trying to get me to buy more frivolous items that I have absolutely no use for. At the mention of my new last name, which still feels funny on my lips, she nearly stammers, then collects herself, clutching her heart. Without asking, she takes me on a guided tour of the shop, taking special care to dwell on a glass case containing overpriced jewelry. The only thing that catches my attention is a jewel-encrusted dagger.
“That one.”
“Rubies … ”
I have no use for rubies as she unlocks the glass drawer displaying the dagger, which turns out to be only for show. Its blade is dull and too heavy to be of any practical use.
I frown. “Don’t you have anything sharper, with no stones?”
Her forehead creases as she redirects me to some costly rings. No matter how flowery her speech, I keep reminding myself if she had met me a week ago, she personally would’ve tossed me on my rear outside before flinging dirty bathwater to teach me a lesson.
I practice my smile, finally getting the information I need.
Without wasting a second, I race out the back and slip through the alley, pressing my sleeve over my nose not to inhale the foul stench. Carefully following the salesgirl’s directions, I cross down two streets and pass a naked statue of a man eating what appears to be a tree. Then I stop. I need to cross the town square before heading down the ravine near the channel, then make a sharp left.
Easy enough.
But with my bad luck, it’s market day. The streets swarm with shoppers and vendors selling all sorts of foods in addition to their usual, worthless trinkets. I count four stalls that specialize in skinning apples before one especially aggressive shopkeeper slams a potato peeler in my face, practically scraping the skin off my nose.
Next, a piece of ripe fruit’s jammed before me, so I hasten my step. Forcefully, I wave everyone away and turn a corner to avoid further harassment, only to bump right into none other than Henric’s backside. He stands unassumingly outside of a teashop. His back registers that someone has struck him, but for some unexplainable reason, he doesn’t bother to glance in my direction.
Without wasting a second, I dart away, hiding behind some coffee crates. His sole focus is on a very pretty girl in the process of scolding him.
She shakes a finger at him. “You can’t just do as you please and think it’s acceptable. It’s disgraceful, and I won’t have any of it.”
My interest piqued, I press closer and continue to eavesdrop.
Her pretty features stiffen. “I think it best that we don’t associate any longer. I will not take your calls or messages, so you might as well stop troubling yourself.”
This girl has no qualms speaking her mind. By the look of her uniform, complete with a crisp, carefully ironed apron, she’s employed at the teashop.
“This is ridiculous … ” Henric’s voice breaks, and his fist clenches and loosens. “You know this match was agreed upon due to the family’s financial situation. Landis and I were both forced into this.”
“My mother informs me that Landis had the courtesy to not cash the dowry.”
Startled, Henric steps back, his face flushed. “Confound it girl, it’s only for the spicing rights. Would you see us impoverished?”
The girl snaps, “I think perhaps you’ll find yourself with two wives, not only one then.”
His face reddens, and he starts to protest, but she gives him no opportunity to respond. Instead, she disappears, slamming the servant’s entrance door firmly behind her.
But what’s even more amazing is that Henric stands there with his jaw dropped, at a complete loss for words. For the first time, he isn’t lashing out or taking action. He remains frozen, like an errant schoolboy taking his punishment.
I smile to myself. Whoever this girl is, she has the power to silence Henric, which, given everything I know of him, is a major feat.
But time is ticking.
I scurry back the way I came, collect my bearings, and cut through the main square. I immediately sense that someone is following me. Not closely, but too close for comfort. I literally feel his hot gaze sizing me up as if I were something on display.
Maneuvering far from the old gypsy with a glass eye promising ghostly vengeance against your enemies with no trace brought back to your household, I scurry on ahead.
Luckily, I’ve been followed, chased, and preyed upon most of my life. I slow my pace a fraction and stop to admire some cheaply-made lace. Carefully, I position myself near a window so I can spot the culprit and size him up.
At first, I think it might be Ralio, the wine not enough temptation for his pallet. But I’m proven wrong when a tall, exquisitely dressed young man also stops to admire some hideous woodwork across from where I stand.
Not Ralio. Not even close.
This man is quite handsome, alarmingly so, and most definitely not in any hurry to pounce. Instead, he takes his time to digest the setting, mood, and climate of this intricate game of cat and mouse he’s playing. He seems to take keen interest in my appearance, tilting his head and allowing his eyes to scan every inch of me when he suspects I’m not watching. This man, whoever he might be, is no mere inquisitive shopper. He’s dressed too fine and walks with ease, as if he owned the streets. Even while scrutinizing my every step, he’s aware of everything around us: the flow of traffic, the more insistent vendors, and the cats pouncing up and down the cobblestones. Nothing escapes his gaze.
A carriage passes, temporarily blocking my view of him. I could easily escape, but for some strange reason, I am too intrigued. Usually, brutish boys with little imaginations assume incorrectly that they have a chance of catching me. They fail every time, only making bigger fools of themselves for their wasted effort.
But this, this is different. It feels strangely exciting and forbidden in some dark way that I simply cannot resist. I check my timepiece and allow a slow exhale. There’s still some time, and the fact remains that I’ve wasted too many days shut up in a high tower without any diversion whatsoever, and now a seemingly worthy opponent has crossed my crooked path by chance. I think quickly, pausing to straighten my bonnet, catching my reflection in the mirror above the cart.
Thanks to Elsie’s cooking, I don’t look anything like the half-starving Outcast girl of a week ago. My face is fuller, and my figure is, for the first time, shapely, not flat like a board. Allowing some curls to spill out of my bonnet, I straighten my back, making sure he’s watching.
Faking a lisp, I ask the trader what it would cost for a sack of flour. To add to the effect, I suckle on my pinkie finger.
The man startles, now openly staring as he glides closer. Then, catching himself, he steps back, laughing as if thoroughly enjoying himself. A salacious gleam reflects in his eyes from the glass.
Yes, I think, too easy. Not worthy of my time. Two other men, not as nicely dressed, gawk at me openly. Their stare causes a wave of panic all the way down to my gut. I double back, dart into the first shop I spot, and race out the back way.
Undetected, I huddle against the wall and watch the imbeciles scurry in the wrong direction in hopes of catching up with me. Then, making sure the path is clear, I fumble my way back to the direction I was going. The thought that I’ve wasted precious time wreaks havoc in me. Time is ticking away.
I get to the market, making sure the two brutes are nowhere near, when I nearly slam directly into the good-looking man, my original stalker. I catch his face and put it to memory. With intense blue eyes, he’s even better-looking face to face. I hadn’t even noticed the handsome mustache before. Steadying my nerves, I pretend that nearly ramming into him is of no consequence.
“Good day, my lady.” His voice is as smooth as satin.
“Sir.”
I gulp, bow, and briskly away, hoping this is the end of it. But when I turn in the direction of the nearest establishment, his hot glare causes goose pimples to ripple down my arms. Faced with two options, giving up on my secret plan or playing this little game out, I choose quickly.
There’s nothing like a little adventure to still my nerves and guarantee a good night’s sleep. So, without hesitation, I entice this nameless scoundrel further down an intricate web. No doubt he’s unaware that the game has changed, and it is I who will be setting the rules from now on.
With the assurance that I’m like no victim that he’s ever encountered, I slow my steps, acting the part of the innocent schoolgirl marveling over the sights of the big city. Without glancing back, I stroll to the front of a vendor selling pagan god statues so he can get a better look at me. Velaria took great pains to fix my hair this morning. Carefully, I loosen the bonnet and allow my hair to unravel. An audible gasp emits from his direction.
From the mirror above the vendor, I spy that he’s spinning in my web, inching closer and closer. Then, taking hold of reason, he lingers by a disheveled bookseller desperate to sell him a set of history manuals.
I catch their conversation from my side of the lane.
“This is something every fine young man is in need of.”
He gazes inattentively at the fourteen-volume set. “How is that?”
“To read in bed, at night. Countless hours of pleasure.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “For pleasure, I have something entirely different in mind.”
I stifle a grin; this man doesn’t mince his words.
Lingering, I pick up a statue, trying to place its name. I believe it to be one of the Untouchables’ fertility gods. They have too many to count. The toothless merchant smiles, holding up one with a maiden with five breasts.
“For a girl, that one, but this one will give you a healthy boy … maybe two.”
