by Jean Lee
Arlen will know what to do, the Voice whispers, hopeful.
Of course! Charlotte doesn’t even turn to see if Keller follows her out of her rooms and onto the second floor’s landing. A stray piece of sheet music blows up from downstairs. She crumples it up, tosses it aside.
Her hand touches the broken staircase—with a ripple of creaks, the wood mends together in time for Charlotte to hop on and slide down the bannister, past the gaps of broken stairs over the cold cellar, to land with a definitive thud in the reception hall.
Keller gives a low whistle from the railing. “Nice.”
But Charlotte’s not bothering with the likes of him. She’s winding up to yell at Poppy for hopping around the wrecked music room, her and those damn sheet music cyclones, giggling like she’s in some frickin’ Chuck. E. Cheese. Rose and Reed grunt as they sweep up two mountains of broken glass and china.
Only Charlotte doesn’t get that chance to yell at Poppy, not then.
“What a creative mind, to use the broken stairs so…productively.” Lady Artair in the flesh. She stands beneath the red stained-glass arch to the dining room, her gold jewelry bold in the afternoon light. She glows like the sun after a cloud break—and Liam’s clouds indeed look distant in his eyes as he stands, shoulders slumped, behind her.
The Voice takes to the bellows. His mother. Watch her, and yourself.
Charlotte gives the sucker another good crunch and twists the stick slowly in her mouth. “Name’s Charlotte. My veli tastes like rotten beets. You Mrs. Artair?”
Lady Artair primly folds her hands, stone ring on top. “Lady Artair. You must be the one who brought my son back to me.” Her eyes hold a startling warmth, the marigold irises a complement to the golden jewelry upon her. Yet as she crunches in the glass to move closer, Charlotte shivers from the chill hidden behind that warmth. “Come closer, my dear.”
Charlotte saunters over to meet Treasa near the crack that runs the front wall of the reception hall. The roses and herbs of Arlen’s garden clean Charlotte’s senses and refill her hope. See the snot of me, the jackass of me. Don’t see the me looking for Arlen, desperate for his scent. She struggles to absorb any detail she can of Liam from her peripheral vision, like his beaten posture and drawn face. But it’s his missing scent that worries Charlotte most of all—not a whiff of fear, or courage, or shame. He smells like his mother, like unripe tomatoes.
“Ah.” Lady Artair’s perfect fingers trace the edges of Charlotte’s face, hair, and shoulders. “The sacrifice of one’s life for love. I see why the blood dagger did not take you at first touch. A rare gift indeed.”
Charlotte does not speak, does not think of how many times she’s held that blood dagger. “Yeah, well, the dagger bled your son out for what, a hundred years? Figured someone should care enough to get him out. Pretty pathetic it took a human stranger to do it.”
The iris fires flare. Lady Artair’s hands close in on either side of Charlotte’s face, and the woman’s face draws close, staring, staring to find a way into Charlotte’s memories. There’s a wriggling along the outer edges of Charlotte’s mind, a wriggling covered with needles like those fucking needles from the white tree in the Pits—
NO. Charlotte and the Voice work her bellows together and burn all those damn wriggling needles away.
Lady Artair drops Charlotte with a growl, and thank instinct Charlotte wraps her arms around her head so her face doesn’t land in the broken glass. The Voice holds her heart tight and fast. You are as strong as stone. They may throw you, but they will not break you. She looks up in time to see Lady Artair flare her nostrils, bare her teeth. Her stilettos click away as she walks past Charlotte into the parlor. “How can this room still be in such disarray? Our guests will be here soon, and more tomorrow!” She goes on, speeding Rose and Reed along, getting Poppy to help, hollering outside to Remus to stop preening and do real work.
A hand appears before Charlotte’s face.
Liam’s. He leans in, sweat bright upon his cheekbones. “Are you all right?”
Charlotte grabs his hand without thinking. It’s weirdly cold and clammy. The bruises across his torso are replaced with goose bumps. His eyes are filled with a thick, pale fog. “You had me worried.” She squeezes his hand tight.
The slightest bit of pink comes to Liam’s cheeks as he bends his head close to hers, filling her vision with his sick, pasty face. “I can’t shake her, I don’t know—”
“Is there a problem?” Lady Artair stands in the archway, a scrap of table in her hand. It smolders like a dying piece of charcoal.
The commoners shuffle by into the mess of the kitchen, heads down, Remus grumbling, “Not our faults Rose House doesn’t care for newcomers.” Even Poppy kicks at the glass, asking if she can keep a music tornado as a pet.
“Liam, help your mother with this room.”
Liam’s face crumples, his teeth grinding. His hand shakes inside Charlotte’s. The weird tomato-ish smell gets stronger.
“Liam, help your mother.”
The smell floods the room like a burst septic tank. Charlotte reels back, coughing, and with Liam’s hand so slippery he’s unmoored. Limp, he shuffles barefoot through the glass towards the parlor. “Yes, Mother.” Charlotte stares at the zombified Liam that was once an Imp, a Master, an Ass, a Friend, a…Stone-Skipper. Laugh-Bringer.
Heart-Healer.
She’s got talons in him somehow, the Voice in Charlotte’s heart growls. They’re digging in deeper by the minute.
Charlotte watches how the table reluctantly reforms under Liam’s hand, how Lady Artair grins over his shoulder.
“We are all pieces on her chessboard,” Arlen had once said. This woman’s been playing the game for at least a few thousand years. How the hell could a girl like Charlotte join the game and declare checkmate in three moves or less? Damn, Sir, we need you. Where is Arlen, House?
The basement door unlocks.
Charlotte swallows, treads carefully off the glass shards and reaches for the doorknob—
Keller slides down the railing. “Oof! That is fun.” Charlotte hisses a “shit” to hide the click of the doorlock. She forces a smile good’n’wide for Keller, whose own grin comes easy. Looks nice on him, too. “So I hear from the commoners you play piano. What if we moved it upstairs? Or have a musician’s landing right…there.” He points up to the second floor’s foyer. “Then I can hear you play no matter where I am in Rose House.”
“‘Where I am’?”
“Keller.” Lady Artair calls without looking at either of them. “Check on the progress in the library, particularly the petite commoner in orange. She gave me a most disrespectful eye before. Liam, help your mother with this floor.”
Keller rolls his eyes. “Be right back.” He jogs out. “What FILTH is this?” His yell, sharp and jagged, pierces every room.
Charlotte gnaws the lollipop stick in half and spits it onto the dining room table.
First, Lord Artair tried to choke her. Then Keller stalked her. Lady Artair’s turning Liam into some sort of zombie, and Arlen’s somewhere in the Pits—probably because of Lord Artair, since he doesn’t seem to be inside Rose House.
House, I’m bettin’ you’re as sick of them as I am.
A light clink onto the table—instead of the broken lollipop stick sits a glass bowl full of Tootsie Pops. Charlotte chuckles to herself as she picks a root beer, her flavor of choice on fight days back in high school.
Let’s play a little game with them, shall we?
31
Charlotte’s Tootsie Pop Game
“Liam, clean up this floor, as your mother asks you.”
Broken china and splinters pierce Liam’s hands as he digs into the debris, commanding Rose House to absorb it. “I…I don’t understand,” he mumbles, mouth loose like a drunkard’s. “It should work.”
“Problem?” Charlotte stands just inside the parlor, feet slightly spread, spinning the lollipop in her puckered lips.
“The House isn
’t listening to me,” Liam says in a vague, monotone voice. He holds up his hand, revealing several fresh cuts.
Charlotte points the Tootsie Pop at him but addresses Lady Artair. “He should have that looked at.”
Lady Artair slowly crosses her arms, ringed hand on top. “Do you often tell people how to parent?”
“Nope.” Charlotte slurps the lollipop back into her mouth, reaches into a mountain of debris, and pulls out a perfectly fine, normal, repaired chair. “Figured he’s bled enough, is all.” She shakes it clean of glass, plunks it down by the window facing away from Lady Artair and Liam. Sits with her feet up on the windowsill. She waves her hand and talks around the Tootsie Pop still in her mouth. “Don’t mind me, just waitin’ on Keller’s piano-moving scheme. Hey, Devyn!” She waves outside to Devyn and a couple others with shovels out in the clear. “Judoc, right? ‘Sup? Hi, Pete!”
“Don’t you dare use my name, you lazy human with your human pronunci—OW!”
Devyn holds his shovel handle over Peat’s head, ready to thump him again. He gives Charlotte a wondering look as the other two start to dig.
Charlotte can feel those marigold irises targeting her neck. She smells the tomatoes, she hears Lady Artair say, “Put that piece here—” followed by the entire mantle crashing down upon the hearth.
Charlotte holds a thumbs-up at Devyn. “Lookin’ great!” she calls.
Devyn raises his hand as though in greeting, but even this far away, Charlotte can see there’s something wrong with Devyn’s hand—blisters, several of them, his skin burned bright red. What’d they do to him, hold his hands in a fire?
Yet Devyn does not react. His face remains grizzled as ever…in fact, the old curmudgeon’s even got a smirk sneaking round one corner of his mouth as he grips that shovel to drive it back into the earth.
Lord Artair’s voice booms across the green space. “Get. To. WORK!”
“Keller!” Lady Artair’s voice is quick and curt through the rooms. “Return. Your father’s back.”
“Where could he have put them?” Lord Artair storms into the reception hall with thundercracks for shoes. “I’ve wandered east, west, nearly all but the Wild Grasses.”
Charlotte slyly turns her head to see Lady Artair exit the parlor.
She freezes.
The reception hall of Rose House is immaculate. The rift through the front wall has healed shut. The floor’s clean. The windows whole. The stairs gleam as if polished. The walls glow eggshell white.
“At least you’ve made progress here, Treasa. Hall looks splendid! Even the wall’s mended perfectly.”
“Indeed.” Lady Artair’s nostrils flare as her eyelids narrow. Her gaze slides onto Charlotte.
Charlotte eases herself off the chair. House, let’s help Liam’s hands, please. When Lady Artair turns again toward her husband to say, “That explains your suit,” Charlotte slips over to Liam and checks over his hands, twitching with pain.
“Mac an donais,” he curses with a grimace, “what was I doing?”
“Shoulda used a broom.” Charlotte moves the broken mantle aside, revealing a steaming bowl of water and washcloth. Perfect, House, thank you. She wrings out the cloth. Liam holds out his palms. She slips her hand beneath his to hold them. Still too clammy. “Honestly, I think you’re getting sick.” She lightly strokes his palms with the washcloth, wiping away the loose debris.
“And candies on the dining room table!” Lord Artair sounds ready to carol. “Now you know I’m not to touch the stuff, Treasa, sugar makes me so edgy. Hmmm, don’t think I’ve ever had a Tootsie Pop.”
“The human Charlotte likes them.” Keller’s voice trickles into earshot, smooth as melted caramel.
Charlotte sighs and bites down on the lollipop stick in concentration. “We gotta do something more about these hands. You can’t sculpt with palms full of splinters. Wish I could do more.”
Liam’s hands fold up and around hers. He whispers soft as feathers, “You already are.”
Charlotte dares to look up. Liam’s curls almost bounce. Lightning flashes inside him, cutting that damn dead fog.
She can’t help herself. She smiles.
Lady Artair’s stilettos echo in the reception hall. “Now why would Rose House follow the whims…” She sees Liam and Charlotte.
She sees the parlor built to perfection. Blue walls, tiled fireplace. Pristine hardwood floor. Cherrywood chairs with blue floral upholstery, matching table. Tea tray prepared. Kettle hanging above a happy fire. It takes a stray sheet of flying music to remember the music room’s still demolished beyond the parlor’s other door.
She sees Liam and Charlotte’s hands. Faces. Hears her son ask, “What is that thing in your mouth?” Laughs.
A single grey hair falls from its place along Lady Artair’s temple. “…of a human…”
Keller’s tongue clicks as he enters the reception hall. “How’d you get the commoners to fix this all so quickly? They’ve barely gathered up the broken shelves in the library. I think the gimp’s exaggerating to get out of work.”
Both react. Liam firmly says, “I burned Ember’s leg to the hollows of the bone. She exaggerates nothing.”
Charlotte stalks up to Keller, fists at her sides. “Call Ember that again and you’ll be sorry.” She spits her lollipop stick at his feet for good measure.
Keller holds up his hands in surrender.
Lady Artair looks down at the stick. “Bearnard, I do think it is time we share our surprise with Liam,” she says with a grin.
“I couldn’t agree more.” A smile plays on either side of Lord Artair’s mouth. His gut jiggles as he takes one of the chairs by the parlor fireplace and motions to Liam to do the same. “Boy, I’ve spent much of the past three centuries reflecting on my old anger. Now is not the time for petty quarrels.”
“Indeed,” Lady Artair swoops in to perch behind Lord Artair’s chair, “It is not.”
“My son, our quarrel is now dead. I forgive you your act of—how did I describe it, dearest?”
“Of mischievous rebellion.” Lady Artair folds her hands on Lord Artair’s shoulders and shares a mother’s knowing smile.
“Yes, thank you. I forgive you that silly act of mischievous rebellion.” He leans over to pat Liam’s knee. Liam watches, but does not respond to the touch, his own hands still dotted with debris and blood. “I want us to be a proper family again.”
Oh no. No no no no no no. Charlotte’s ears fill with the sound of a thousand pianos crashing together and plummeting into the sea. Her fingers numb. Her marrow boils. Behind her fighter’s mask she recoils, whimpers. She walks past Keller and into the dining room before they can see her body shaking. All the sparkle, all the damn gilt—just like those princeborns, all perfectly pretty and regal.
And more fragile than they will admit. The Voice in Charlotte’s heart blankets her feelings as much as it can and pushes her upright. A pox on respect. Drive them to distraction. The more they loathe you, the less they’ll care about what matters to you.
“Yes.” Liam speaks with that soldier’s tone, emotionless and direct. “Mother mentioned something of it. But I’ve—”
“—not been told the juicy part.” Keller says with an impish wink in Charlotte’s direction.
I wanna punch him.
The Voice considers. Not yet.
Charlotte lingers in the dining room, futzing with the Tootsie Pop wrapper as loudly as possible. Lady Artair shifts just enough to keep Charlotte in her eye line. “You remember that rather difficult summer after we sent the Durants to Rupert’s Land?”
“Canada.” Keller clarifies, lips curling.
Charlotte pops the grape Tootsie Pop into her mouth and says nothing.
“The House of Aleron stood strong with us then,” Lady Artair sighs wistfully. “And still does, thanks to the marvelous efforts of Darra. You do remember Darra, don’t you, Liam?”
Charlotte sees Liam’s head bow towards the fire. “Yes, I remember.”
�
��Thank heart’s fire!” Lord Artair laughs. “For a moment I feared you’d forgotten the better days among your peers.” His voice slides into a sharp sweetness that cuts Charlotte’s ears. Just like Keller upstairs. Like Son, like Father. “You two got on so well as we old fogies dealt with some, shall we say, disputes among a few other Houses. Now, since you both are still unattached—”
“—and you two aren’t getting any younger—” Lady Artair chimes in.
“—yes, dearest, that’s right—and still of a strong, powerful age, we thought a wonderful way to complete your return into the family was with marriage.”
Charlotte can’t see Liam’s face from where she stands. She doesn’t want to. Her whole body contorts out of joint, weighs down.
“But Darra and I have not spoken in ages…long before my exile here.” A few soft pit pit pits—blood drips from his still-bleeding hands. Crimson threads with bright lavender veli into a single pool beneath his chair. “Surely she wouldn’t agree to such a, a sudden commitment.”
“But she has,” Lady Artair says, smooth as a cougar’s purr. “And you will, too. Your union will take you soaring to new heights, my son.”
Liam’s head jerks up. “‘New heights’?”
Lady Artair smiles. “Your wings will know the clouds again, I promise you. Trust your mother.”
There! Charlotte has to hold the Tootsie Pop in her mouth, or her open mouth’s gonna lose it to the floor. Liam’s shoulders fall at the words your mother.
Lord Artair carries on with nauseating glee. “The Alerons will be here in just a short while. Tomorrow morning representatives of our allied Houses arrive to see you and Darra wed. And then, ceremony complete, we will leave for our compound in the Rocky Mountains—well, most of us.” He grins at Keller. “Your brother shall command River Vine from tomorrow until…well, whenever our plan deems otherwise.”
