The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  He flattened his hand and ran it up the length of her stomach. The muscles of her abdomen clenched beneath his touch. “I don’t feel any scars.”

  She smiled crookedly at him. “They’re deeper down.” Then she leaned up and grazed her lips against his own. The light brush felt like a spark. He gathered her closer, body to body, and their lips set about that warm, enkindling dance that was both familiar and new.

  They began to make love slowly, reverently, without speaking, each moment full of careful tenderness.

  With bodies joined, Yarrow felt that moment—that marriage, that intersection of selves—as a revelation, a truth.

  He couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wished to. She, too, remained silent save for ever-louder breaths—he knew them to be sounds of pleasure, as he could sense her euphoria, humming in harmony with his own.

  At the last, she breached their mute communication, gasping his name—the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. He shuddered, muscles pleasantly weary.

  Afterwards, they lay entwined, still—allowing their hearts to calm. Yarrow’s own heart felt, abruptly, pained.

  His breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes closed.

  Bray’s finger smoothed the crease between his brows. “You look so serious,” she whispered. He smiled, but the sense of something missing, something that would ever be missing, pressed upon him. “Won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

  He licked his lips and stared up at the under deck. Somewhere nearby, a gull cawed.

  It scared him, the idea of sharing what he’d seen of the future. He worried she’d be unnerved, that it would be too much too soon. As he peeked down at her entreating eyes, however, he realized he needn’t fear.

  “I used the Sphere, back at Easterly Point.”

  “I thought you must have,” she said.

  A lump in his throat made it hard for him to continue.

  “What did you see?”

  He brushed a hand up and down her sandy back, hoping perhaps to borrow some of her spine. “I saw us—and our daughter. But I didn’t just see it.” He drew a deep breath. “I lived it. And then…it’s like I killed her.”

  Bray shook her head. “Don’t do that to yourself, Yarrow. You had no choice.”

  “There is always a choice,” he whispered. “Now, I must find a way to live with mine.”

  Bray rested her head on his shoulder and draped her arm around him. “Can you tell me about her?”

  And he did. He spoke for what felt like hours, recounting every detail of the experience—purging himself. Bray listened, asked questions, helped shoulder the grief, though Spirits knew she had enough of her own already.

  When he had said all there was to say, she wiped the salty trail of tears from his temple and stroked his hair.

  “I suppose I’ve some scars myself,” Yarrow said, attempting to laugh and failing.

  She squeezed his fingers. “Don’t we all?”

  Ko-Jin flipped the collar of his coat up against the wind. The faux beard glued to his face tickled at his nose. He scratched. It had seemed a funny thing to him at the time, but the false hair was blighted irritating.

  He and his two charges wended through the streets of Cagsglow. He watched two matrons wearing old-fashioned bonnets and cotton dresses cross the street, looking like women fifty years out of time. They didn’t spare him a glance, at least—being on the coast, he assumed they must see a fair number of travelers from the south.

  “Our first stop,” Ko-Jin said, pointing to the national bank on the corner.

  “Will a bank not require identification?” Jo-Kwan asked, his voice muffled through the fabric of his leirdra—a thin face covering popular in parts of Adourra. It was a perfect disguise for the royal siblings, given the darkness of their skin.

  “Banks have a different protocol for my kind. They just check our marks, as no Chisanta would have reason to steal.”

  Ko-Jin shouldered open the door and strode into the bank lobby, hoping the beard would sufficiently disguise his now-wanted face. “Hang back,” he murmured to his companions as he stepped up to the counter.

  “May I assist you, sir?” the teller asked, a young woman with a bush of curly brown hair.

  “I certainly hope so.” He flashed his winningest smile. “I’m a Chisanta here on some research and I need to empty my account to purchase a boat.”

  The teller began to unconsciously fix her wild tresses. “A boat? That’s quite a purchase. Do you have identification?”

  “I’m afraid I do not.” He assumed a troubled expression. “I was robbed last week in Accord. I’d hoped that a mark inspection might suffice.”

  Her brow creased. “I’ll have to ask my superior,” she said, rising. “Wait just one moment.”

  She disappeared for a time and Ko-Jin kept his mien unconcerned. He whistled a merry tune, though, in truth, he was anxious. If they could not withdraw money, they’d have no funds whatsoever, having handed over what little they’d had between them in order to rent the cottage.

  The girl reappeared with a bright smile, coming around the counter to him. “We’ve checked the protocol and you’re quite right, Master Chisanta. If I may…”

  Ko-Jin removed his coat and bent down to show his mark. She leaned in close, examining his neck with wide eyes. He felt a cool fingertip touch his skin.

  “That seems in order,” she said, blushing, then returned to her seat on the other side of the counter. “What’s the name on the account?”

  Ko-Jin beamed. “Arlow Bowlerham. That’s B-O-W-L-E-R-H-A-M.”

  Forty minutes later, with supplies and food, they walked up the drive to their rented lodgings. Ko-Jin deposited his bags on the dining table, sending a plume of dust up into the air. He rubbed his nose.

  The king surveyed the space—from the grimy floorboards, to the dusty furniture, up to dirt-stained windows. “Where does one even begin?” he asked, softly, as if to himself.

  “As with any physical confrontation, it’s best to have a plan of attack,” Ko-Jin said briskly. “I suggest we work our way down; no sense in cleaning a floor only to dirty it again while tackling the furniture. I’ll begin by beating out the cushions. Highness, you could start with the—” He cut short at the expression of incredulity on the king’s face. He stroked his false beard. “Ah—you do mean to help? I realize you aren’t used to such things, but we can’t exactly hire servants, being fugitives and all…”

  Jo-Kwan opened and closed his mouth a few times, at a loss for words.

  Chae-Na raised her chin and speared her brother with a glare. “Of course we will help.” She clapped her hands once, a sunny gesture that made Ko-Jin smile. “It shall be most edifying, I’m certain.” She pursed her lips dubiously at the collection of cleaning products on the table: lemons, lye soap, baking powder, vinegar. “We may require instruction, however. Isn’t that so, Jo-Kwan?”

  The king shrugged, which Ko-Jin chose to interpret as acquiescence despite a definite chagrined glint in the man’s eye.

  “Excellent. As I was saying, Jo-Kwan, you can tackle the windows, and Chae-Na—”

  With instructions more-or-less successfully delivered, Ko-Jin lugged the furniture outside, hoping that a sound beating and some fresh air would lessen the odor.

  The backyard held a secluded beauty, encircled in trees. The afternoon had grown warm and breezy. The wind tugged at his artificial beard, reminding him that he was still wearing the foolish thing. He braced himself and ripped the false hair away, wincing as several nose hairs were plucked out in the process.

  Then he set to work. He restrung the clothesline and flung the living room rug over the rope. It hung there, lethargic, maroon beneath its dirt coat. He found a suitably sized branch, an ideal dust beater.

  Bending his knees, he exhaled, rooted himself, and swung. The stick hit the rug with a satisfying thwack, a cloud of dust exploding in Ko-Jin’s face.

  He struck again, harder. Then again.

  It was cathartic—to
hit, to make something, even if only a bit of carpet, submit to his strength. Whack! It had done so little good, lately, his strength. It had been taken from him against his will at Easterly Point, and again every night in his dreams. Whack! In Accord, it had proven insufficient to the task. What help was it, all this might, if he still consistently failed to protect those in his care?

  His muscles began to burn as he hit the rug steadily harder. His hair came loose, clinging to a sweaty brow. He walloped again and again, until he went too far and the clothesline cracked. The wooden beams, though not the target of his force, snapped, sending the rug down onto the grass in a pathetic heap.

  He panted, staring down at it, every muscle in his body taut. A hand came to rest cautiously on his shoulder. He spun and found the king.

  “It’s alright,” Jo-Kwan said. His black eyes held understanding—he swallowed, the bump in his throat bobbing. Then he glanced back down to the carpet. “I believe you’ve beaten it into submission.”

  Ko-Jin smiled, grateful for the joke—laughing always preferable to a sentimental alternative. “Indeed. It won’t dare dirty itself again, no doubt.”

  They reentered the cottage, where the smells of lemon juice and vinegar had begun to overpower the mildew. Chae-Na hummed as she wiped the kitchen counter, sliding the rag with only her fingertips.

  She smiled at them as they joined her. “It’s already much improved, I think.”

  Jo-Kwan grunted. He meandered to the window, the panes now clean thanks to his ministrations. “They’ve been gone quite a long while, Bray and Yarrow. You don’t think they’ve come to harm, do you?” he asked, a little too casually.

  “No,” Ko-Jin said, keeping a knowing smile from his lips. “They’re fine, I’m sure.” He turned away to conceal his laugh. More than fine, he imagined, given the length of their absence. They were probably off having beach sex—the third best kind of sex, in his estimation—while he was stuck cleaning. If he weren’t such an amiable fellow, he might just be annoyed.

  As it was, he wished them happy and set about scrubbing the floors. His companions joined him in the chore, for which he was appreciative. He glanced up at them. A lock of Chae-Na’s hair hung forward; she seemed to be cleaning the same small circle again and again, as if dissatisfied with her prior results. The muscles in Jo-Kwan’s arm stood rigid as he scrubbed the planks with vigor, so much vigor one might imagine he hoped to wipe right through the timber.

  Ko-Jin chuckled to himself. The sight of the king and princess of Trinitas, on hands and knees scouring muddy floorboards, gave him a strange surge of national pride. He was glad that his king, when the need arose, could roll up his sleeves and do the dirty work.

  Jo-Kwan grimaced at a splinter in his hand. “What is amusing, might I ask?”

  “Just life,” Ko-Jin said. “I grew up on stories about kings and princesses, you know. My ma used to love those sorts of tales—captured damsels, beasties that needed slaying, and the like. They never go quite like this, though, do they?”

  Chae-Na wiped her brow with her forearm. “I never liked those stories.”

  Jo-Kwan moaned. “Here she goes.” He looked at Ko-Jin significantly. “My sister has lots of ideas about fairytales.”

  Chae-Na sniffed. “And why should I not?” She turned to Ko-Jin, her pretty face terrifically grave. “When I was young my nurse used to read me fairytales, too.” She brushed her hands clean on her apron. “I always thought the women in them intolerably yielding, just waiting around to be saved like that. What a terrible message for girls! I should much rather have been the knight—at least they were active.” Jo-Kwan was smiling and shaking his head at her, but she ignored him. “Besides, it has always seemed foolish to me that women are meant to expect peril and salvation from the same quarter. Much smarter to save oneself, I should think.” She bit her lip and tilted her face away.

  Ko-Jin grunted, not really sure how to respond to such a speech. “Well, I reckon we’ve just about finished.”

  He rose and stretched knots from his back, then scanned the room. The cottage could almost be deemed perfectly livable. “On to making dinner, then.”

  “I’ll collect some firewood, shall I?” Jo-Kwan said, again darting a glance to the window.

  “We’ve got plenty for now. No reason for you to wander off on your own.”

  The king rewrapped his face covering. “I’m eager for a walk. I will not travel far.”

  He left and Ko-Jin frowned after him, thinking it an unnecessary risk. He was unlikely to run into any trouble in these parts, however.

  Ko-Jin began to unload the groceries. He paused in the task. “Ah, Princess Chae-Na? What exactly is this?” he asked, lofting an oblong purple vegetable.

  She approached the table. “Why, an eggplant of course.”

  “Right. And how does one cook an eggplant?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again, brow furrowed. “Truthfully, I haven’t the least idea,” she said at length. “This is going to make me sound a simpleton, I know, but,” she picked up the eggplant and revolved it in her hands, “I’d forgotten we’d have to prepare the food ourselves.” She rooted through the kitchen drawers and returned with a cutting board and knife, assuming an expression of forced cheer. “We shall just have to do as best we can, shan’t we?”

  He could do nothing other than nod his endorsement. “How hard can it be?”

  She set to chopping the odd vegetable and Ko-Jin could not but marvel at how regal she made the task—something about the way she held herself, a certain poise. Next to her, he began preparing the meat, but his attention kept wandering to her hands.

  “Princess?” he asked again.

  “Hm?”

  “Are those archery calluses on your fingers?”

  Her dark brows lifted, then she considered her hands with a rueful smile. “They are. Not very pretty, are they?”

  Ko-Jin lifted his own rough hands. “I love a good callus, myself. Useful things. I’d not have thought archery a proper pastime for a princess, though.”

  She half laughed, then frowned. “My father shared your opinion. I managed to convince him that ladies of quality frequently practice the sport, for gracefulness and dexterity.” Her lip twitched and she swallowed. “The same tactic did not meet with success when I expressed interest in swordsmanship.”

  “Oh, I’m of the opinion women should learn to defend themselves, personally. Female Chisanta have no trouble. I was merely surprised; I thought elegant ladies preferred, ah…embroidery, watercolors, that sort of thing.”

  She transferred the cubed vegetable into a baking dish. “I do not see why I cannot enjoy both.”

  He drummed his fingers on the counter. “So,” he shot a quick look down at her. “Are you any good? At archery, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes. I am very good.” She grinned. “And yourself?”

  “Decent. It isn’t my specialty, but I can hit a target.” He leaned his weight back against the cabinets. “There’s a fletcher in town. Perhaps we can set up a target out back—give us something to do.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Oh yes, let’s! I could so use the distraction.”

  Ko-Jin was warmed by her enthusiasm. He glanced out the window, towards the forlorn silhouette of the king. Jo-Kwan stood still, staring out towards the sea, his fists in his pockets.

  Some training might be just the thing.

  Bray and Yarrow hiked back up to the cottage as the sunlight began to fade. She hoped there wouldn’t be any awkwardness about the length of their absence—though, in truth, she didn’t really care. She couldn’t stop grinning. Yarrow’s fingers, entwined with her own, squeezed. He had a contented, ruffled look about him that she quite liked, though there was still a glimmer of pain within those soft gray eyes.

  Her heart ached for him, but couldn’t really dampen her own pleasure. For her, a child was too abstract—the idea of one inspired more fear than joy. What they had, for her, was enough. She pulled his hand up and kissed his kn
uckles.

  When they reentered the cottage, they were greeted with the crackle of hearthfire and the smell of charring meat. The place had obviously been cleaned since they left—there was no sign of dust, the furniture had been rearranged. Purple curtains hung in the window. She felt a slight twinge of guilt at this, but could not with any honesty regret her own afternoon.

  She choked down a laugh as she entered the kitchen. Chae-Na was bent over the counter, meticulously plating their dinner. She’d set the table—plates, napkins, glasses—with great care, though all of the dishes were terribly mismatched and chipped. Bray, who usually dined at inns or ate food cooked over a fire with only her fingers, couldn’t help but chuckle at the endeavored formality.

  “Oh, excellent timing,” Chae-Na said. “I was concerned you would miss dinner. It is rather scandalously late, I am afraid.”

  She carried a platter of meat, charred black, to the table, her back ramrod straight.

  “We bought berries for dessert, but—and this is most strange—there do not appear to be any dessert forks. I’ve searched high and low. What do you think we should do?”

  Bray pretended to contemplate this for a moment, to spare the girl’s feelings. “Hm…perhaps we might just use the same forks?”

  Chae-Na shook her head at this small tragedy. “Yes, that was all I could think of as well. I am glad you agree.”

  Jo-Kwan stepped through the entrance. He greeted them shortly, not making eye contact, and slumped down into a seat at the table.

  “Jo-Kwan,” Chae-Na said, crossing her arms. “What are you doing? You sit at the head.”

  The king rolled his eyes. “It does not matter where I sit, Chae-Na. Can we not just eat?”

  “It does matter. You are the king, and the king sits at the head.”

  Yarrow and Ko-Jin appeared in the kitchen doorway—they, like Bray, seemed suddenly unsure where to sit.