The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Yarrow smiled and removed his hat. He set the stack on the counter. Mr. Bellmont placed five new volumes before him. The text on top looked to be of particular interest. The silver lettering read: ‘A History of the Chisanta: Friend or Foe of the Common Man?’

  “My thanks,” Yarrow said with good cheer. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  The man gave a wheezing laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”

  Yarrow backed out into the street once again, books clutched to his chest. The bell proclaimed his exit. He focused on his feet, stepping around a patch of ice. He noticed peripherally that the hill, which had been vacant moments before, was no longer deserted. Three people on horseback stood out like shadows against the overcast sky.

  Yarrow thought nothing of them, until he heard his name called out in a female voice. He paused. A woman jumped from her mount and sprinted in his direction. Her copper-colored hair streamed behind her. It was the only bit of color and brightness in an otherwise uniformly bleak backdrop.

  “Yarrow,” she cried again. It was strange to hear so much feeling applied to his name; she gasped it, those two syllables which were only beginning to feel like his own. Gasped it, as if his name—or perhaps he, himself—were air drawn into choking lungs.

  As she drew closer, he realized that he knew her face, and her voice as well. This was the woman who had been searching for him in the prison. She had said she would kill him. Perhaps she had been speaking in hyperbole, he thought, because she was grinning now, and there was no threat in her body language.

  The woman looked as if she meant to barrel right into him, but at the last moment she pulled short, huffing, and swayed on the spot. Her eyes—an incredibly bright green, he noted—scanned him up and down.

  “Yarrow?” she said once again, but this time softly. This time a question. A cloud passed over her features, and her smile slipped.

  Yarrow felt foolish. He was uncertain how to respond to such emotion, but clearly he must say something. At length, he tipped his hat. “Good morning.”

  Her lips parted and a sharp crease bloomed between her russet brows. She took a half-step back, as if he had struck her. As if ‘good morning’ were a terrible insult. Odd, as it had seemed to him an innocuous enough greeting.

  “You…” She licked her lip, and—much to his horror—blinked to hold back tears. “You don’t know me?”

  “Forgive me,” he said, and meant it. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Her face crumpled, and Yarrow could do nothing but stand there, clutching his books, and watch. It wasn’t mysterious—plainly this woman had loved him, had loved the Yarrow he had been before. Had he reciprocated the feeling? Why hasn’t Arlow mentioned her?

  She glanced away. “You promised you wouldn’t make another. You promised…” She said this to the ground, the words not for him.

  The wind gusted, bitterly cold. Her red hair blew into her face and she swatted it away.

  “I apologize,” he said again, though clearly it was an inadequate response. It was genuine, though. He was quite sorry to have caused this woman pain; she did not seem to have been made for tears. Not with such intense eyes, with a mouth that looked somehow clever, even in distress.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then brushed away a tear with the back of a pale hand.

  And then, visibly gathering herself, she held that hand out to him. “I’m Bray,” she said, pausing to collect herself. “Bray Marron.”

  He transferred the books to his left arm and took her proffered palm. Even through the leather of his glove, he experienced an odd jolt at the contact. He felt, all at once, like a fish caught on a line—helplessly hooked.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he heard himself reply. “Bray Marron.”

  “So, he’s made the third sacrifice?” Roldon asked in an undertone.

  His words drifted, half-heard, through Bray’s ears. She perceived a great deal of noise and motion around her—tattooed men erecting a wedding bower at the fore of the inn’s common room, the hammering of nails and coarse language—but all this, too, failed to penetrate. The world had taken on a hushed dimness, save for a single man illuminated by his own tragic light: Yarrow.

  Her attention fixed on him with an intensity that he must feel, even across the room. He leaned against the bar to order them drinks, and she traced the slope of his shoulders with her eyes.

  He isn’t himself, she thought, and it choked her. Her hands fisted in her lap. How could he do this to me? Why?

  She imagined herself demanding an answer to these questions, hitting him between each word. But it would do no good. This man could offer her no insight into Yarrow’s decision. She would never know.

  Bray relaxed her hands but continued to stare. There was something simply…off about him. His countenance, his posture, his manner of speaking—it was all not quite right, not quite Yarrow. She swallowed and blinked.

  Even in that moment, from clear across the room, she could discern the alteration in his behavior. She watched him smile at the bartender, but the expression looked forced, awkward. The Yarrow she had known didn’t offer false smiles.

  “He’s different,” Roldon said, putting voice to Bray’s thoughts—fears.

  “I found him, still,” Trevva said. She sounded only mildly interested. “He must be the same man in essence, or I would not have known his location.”

  Yarrow brought a tray with four glasses back to their table. He wended through a stream of burly men who carried stacks of wooden folding-chairs. Bray suspected he was avoiding her gaze; he sat down and distributed their beverages without once looking her way. She should stop staring, she knew. It was likely not a favorable first impression.

  First impression… Spirits…

  “So, Yar,” Roldon began. He paused to sip from his glass. “What’s the last—er, first thing you remember? How long have you been…” He made a sweeping gesture towards his friend, encompassing his current state.

  Yarrow drummed four fingers on the table. “I have sixteen days of memory.”

  Roldon whistled. “Spirits…sixteen days?” He gulped a more substantial swill of ale. “We’ve known each other ages, you and I. We’ve been friends since we all left for the Cape—you, Ko-Jin, Arlow, and me.”

  Yarrow darted a questioning look at Bray. The brief eye contact sent a jolt through her frame. She sat up straighter.

  “I’m Chiona,” she said, answering the question he had not asked. “We met when we were marked as well, but only recently…” she licked a dry lip, searching for the right word. “Reconnected.”

  He nodded down at the table. “I’ve read that the Chiona and Cosanta do not coexist amicably.”

  Trevva laughed, proclaiming this an understatement. Roldon swiveled a look of feigned offense in her direction. His mouth shifted into a grin—grinning seemed to come naturally to Roldon. “The times, they change. We’re all getting on a lot better now.”

  “Because of Quade Asher,” Yarrow said. Not a question.

  “Right. Heard of him, have you?” Roldon asked.

  Yarrow glanced down and fidgeted with his glove. “Met him, actually.”

  Bray’s scrutiny pulled to Yarrow’s hands. He pushed the pinky of his glove back and forth, as if there were no finger within. Not as if, she realized. Her grip on the armrests of her chair tightened; her knuckles turned white. Quade likes to destroy hands…

  Yarrow’s had been so elegant—artist’s hands. Bray cautioned herself that she must remain seated. She could not jump from her chair and inspect him. She couldn’t demand that he show her every wound Quade had left on his dear body. She could not; though she longed to account for every scratch, so that she might repay each in kind.

  She inhaled deeply and screwed her eyes shut. This man did not know her. She couldn’t act as if nothing had changed, not unless she aimed to scare him away…

  “Bray, are you alright?” Roldon asked.

  No. “Yes.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Ya
rrow asked her.

  Her eyes snapped open and met his. They, at least, were the same—his eyes. Such a soft gray color, ringed with a sharper black. Intelligent and compassionate.

  “No, I’m quite well. Thank you.” She took a sip from her glass to give her hands an occupation. “I was only wondering how you came to be down here. Why did you leave Accord?”

  “A friend thought it would be wise if we left the capital.”

  “A friend?” Roldon asked.

  Yarrow’s head turned just then, looking to someone who had entered the room behind Bray.

  Roldon jumped from his seat. “Arlow?”

  Bray felt herself stiffen—muscles taut, poised to spring. She listened to the tread of the man approaching.

  “By all the Spirits,” came the hearty tones of Arlow Bowlerham. “Roldon? Blighter, if I’m not glad to see you.”

  The men embraced, slapping each other’s backs. Bray understood the identity of the friend Yarrow had mentioned. A tight coil of anger burned in her stomach.

  Arlow Bowlerham—who had worked with Quade from the beginning, whose companion had shot her in the back, causing Yarrow to sacrifice his ability to touch. He had taken Yarrow from Accord, while she rode desperately through snow storms in their wake.

  She realized the group had turned quiet. She found Arlow gaping down at her.

  “Bray,” he said in a soft voice, guilty. He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. Good. “I hadn’t expected the pleasure—”

  She stood, pushing herself to her feet with exaggerated nonchalance, uncertain yet if she meant to cause him harm. “Nor I. I’d imagined you would still be traveling with Quade. Or has he sent you on an errand?”

  These words drained what little composure Arlow had summoned. At his side, Roldon jerked his head in confusion. It would seem his friends were not all aware of his loyalties.

  “I…” Arlow rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. It was peculiar, seeing all his arrogance and charm stripped away. He looked young, exposed. “I made a profound error in judgment, and I regret it. Truly.”

  Bray didn’t know how to reply—she hadn’t expected an apology, certainly not one that sounded sincere. She crossed her arms and raised her brows, inviting him to continue.

  “I have not been Quade’s man for some time. If you require proof, there are a number here who can vouch for my recent activities.” He gestured to the workers, the tattooed men assembling a makeshift wedding bower. Upon closer inspection, she noticed several of them bore the infamous Pauper’s tattoo—the crowned fist.

  “The Pauper’s Men at the hanging,” Roldon said, “you were working with them?”

  “I was. Though, I confess, I spent the better portion of that event lying unconscious on the pavement. There is more than one woman stirred to violence by the mere sight of my face.” He winked at Bray, his repentance apparently at an end. “I take it you’ve decided not to kill me.”

  Bray’s mouth twisted, but she retook her seat. “For the time being.”

  “My bride will no doubt be glad to hear it,” Arlow said.

  Yarrow laughed—it was the first sound he had made since Arlow’s approach. He gazed up at his old friend with amused affection. Bray’s mood soured. She gulped down half her ale to clear the foul taste in her mouth.

  Roldon, who had been taking a sip of his own drink, coughed and sputtered. “Your what?”

  “Yes, you’ve arrived just in time to see me hitched.” He did not sound pleased. “Roldon, will you stand up with me, mate?”

  Roldon smiled and shook his head. “You’re joking, obviously.”

  Arlow sighed. “Afraid not. Yarrow?”

  “Oh, he is most certainly to be married.”

  Roldon opened his mouth to speak, clearly unconvinced, but was cut short by the approach of a harried-looking middle-aged woman.

  “Begging your pardon, but we need to clear this table to make room for the ceremony. There are tables in the side dining room for guests. My apologies for the inconvenience.”

  They could do little other than shrug and rise from their seats, drinks in hand. The woman gestured, and two young men bore their table away. She scanned the room and clucked her tongue with displeasure. “Hopeless,” she muttered to herself.

  Bray snickered in agreement. The woman might rearrange the furniture and construct a bower, but this common room could only ever be a shabby alehouse with peeling wallpaper. It struck Bray, all at once, as tremendously funny—the idea of Arlow Bowlerham being married in this place.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” Yarrow asked the woman.

  Her thin brows rose in surprise, and she broke into a grateful smile. “How kind of you,” she said. “Yes, if you don’t mind. Everything has been terribly last minute, and I’ve not got hands enough myself to see to it all.”

  Yarrow bowed his head. “What would you have me do?”

  She motioned for him to follow. The others, apparently less inclined to lend a hand, trailed towards the dining room to finish their drinks. Arlow appeared to be explaining to Roldon the hows and whys of his upcoming wedding, with Trevva gliding at Roldon’s side.

  Bray hesitated for a moment, then followed Yarrow. The woman led him to a corner where a box of freshly cut greenhouse daisies lay on the floor.

  “These are for the bower,” the woman said. “You simply take the lattice,” she hoisted a long string of golden ribbon, “and insert a blossom in each of these loops, and then pull it tight. Like so. Understand?”

  Yarrow dipped his head. “Seems simple enough.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said, breathily. “You’re a lifesaver.” She then hustled away, calling out to a man carrying a chair, “No, no, not there!”

  Yarrow winced as he dropped to the floor. He set his ale beside him and leaned against the wall. He hadn’t acknowledged Bray’s presence. Perhaps he doesn’t want my company? Her heart twinged at the thought.

  “Would you like a hand?” she asked, posing the question lightly.

  He contemplated her with half a smile and, once again, the eye contact thrilled. Warmth rushed to her face.

  “By all means,” he said, patting the ground beside him. “Though, it hadn’t seemed you were fond of Arlow. I’m surprised you’d want to help.”

  She sank down to the hard wood floor and arranged her skirts around her, wishing for trousers. “Well, he…” She stopped herself. She could tell Yarrow about his friend’s betrayal. About Adearre. About his own sacrifices.

  But what would be the point? This Yarrow would not recall those pains. This Yarrow had only the one friend.

  “He’s a real ass sometimes.”

  Yarrow chuckled. “He is that.”

  He withdrew a daisy from the box and endeavored to work the stem through the ribbon, but his gloves seemed to be causing him difficulty. He lacked the dexterity for the task, and his brow creased in frustration.

  “Why don’t you pass me the blossoms and I’ll place them?” she offered, taking the daisy from his hand and slipping it into the second loop.

  It was an excellent arrangement, as she was able to sit near him but could focus on the flowers in her lap. She felt his gaze on her face often, and her neck flushed in awareness.

  Bray wondered how she looked through his eyes. What was he thinking?

  “Arlow never mentioned you,” he said at length.

  She plucked a new bloom from his palm. “No?”

  “No.” She sensed his scrutiny again. “We were close, I take it?”

  She thought of the ship wreckage in Cagsglow, and her face warmed further. “Yes.”

  He waited for her to continue. She paused to take a sip of ale, her mouth suddenly dry, then leaned back against the wall. “This is awkward.”

  What was she meant to say? Knowing that he had loved her would not make her any less a stranger now.

  “I beg your pardon,” Yarrow said. He proffered another blossom. “I’m only trying to piece things together. I can�
��t touch people, so I’m wondering if…or how…”

  Bray drained her glass, coughing a bit. “That is a fairly recent development, your inability to touch.”

  “Ah,” he said and nodded to himself. It seemed that was enough. “Arlow’s been telling me stories to help fill in my memory, not that he’s a terribly reliable source,” he added with a laugh. “Perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind, you could…”

  “Sure.” She tried to think of a suitable memory—preferably one that didn’t cast her in a negative light. Unfortunately, much of their reunion did not fit that constraint. She felt, all over again, ashamed at how suspicious and pig-headed she’d been then. No, better to go further back…

  “So, we were in the carriage that would take us to the Temple—me, you, Arlow, and my good friend Peer—when all of a sudden the coach pulled up short. A highwayman with a gun yanked the door open and ordered us all out. We were only fourteen then, mind, and it was dark and cold, so—”

  Next, she told him about the bottle of wine she’d nicked their first night together, and then how he’d passed the test and been named Cosanta. He was an excellent audience, despite that she was not much of a storyteller. He asked questions, wanting to know details, most of which she couldn’t recall.

  Her anxiety eased, and she had the sense that he too was growing more comfortable in her company. Not that they had regained normalcy—far from it. She felt an unusual pressure to be likable, to show her best side. If I even have one.

  It was not ordinarily in her nature to care what others thought of her. She wished she had asked Yarrow before all of this what had drawn him to her. It seemed, now, some kind of inexplicable miracle, him loving her. One she feared she could not recreate.

  “It was Pauper’s Men, back then, who took all of Arlow’s belongings?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There seem to be quite a few here. Arlow’s been involved with them?” That sounded about as unlikely a pairing as she could imagine.

  “He’s marrying the Pauper’s King’s sister.”

  Bray dropped a daisy. “What?” she asked, rather too loudly.

  Yarrow laughed at her expression. “She’s nice, actually.”