Slumber

by Cassandra Dean

  Sebastian. Sebastian crouched with his back to her, her attacker’s throat held tight in his grasp. Over and again, he plowed his fist into the man, heavy, violent blows to make the villain jerk as each one landed. Around them lay the fallen bodies of the man’s comrades, each bloodied and unconscious. Sebastian must have done that. Sebastian must have broken each man and, gods, would he stop, would he cease beating this man bloody?

  Shock fading, she rushed to him, curling her arm about his bicep. “Sebastian, let’s go. He’s down.” Pulling at him desperately, she tried force him to stop him. “Sebastian, let’s go.”

  Somehow, her words got through to him. Still holding the man by the throat, he raised his gaze to meet hers.

  She recoiled at the dead expression she found there. Swallowing, she dug her fingers into his arm. “Sebastian?”

  He dropped the man, who landed on the street with a dull thud. Ignoring how very still the man was, Thalia tugged Sebastian away, holding his loose fingers as she pushed through the throng that had formed about them.

  Determination drove her forward. She needed to find somewhere safe. Now.

  ***

  The room was dank, dark, and exactly what they needed. The innkeeper had asked no questions, had silently taken the coin Thalia offered and kept his thoughts about their bloodied and bruised state to himself.

  Ushering Sebastian into the room, she closed the door. For a moment, she let all that had happened wash over her, and she almost buckled, her forehead banging against the door. They’d almost died, and Sebastian…Sebastian had….

  Gulping air, she gathered herself. She couldn’t fall apart. Sebastian needed her.

  Turning, she found him in the middle of the room, knuckles cut and bruised, his face battered and covered in blood. His eyes met hers, and she almost flinched at the blankness she still saw there.

  But it was still Sebastian, though he was covered in blood and wore a dead expression.

  She took a tentative step toward him. He didn’t draw back, and, emboldened, she touched his arm. “Sebastian—”

  He recoiled violently. “Don’t touch me.”

  The vehemence in his voice stunned her. “Sebastian, I’m only trying to see—”

  “Don’t touch me.” He backed up so fast, he smacked into the wall. He didn’t seem to notice. “Don’t touch me. Don’t—” A shudder wracked his body.

  “Sebastian—”

  Eyes wild, he pushed off the wall and prowled the room. “Why are you here? I don’t require your help. I don’t require you. I never have, and I never will. I say what I want to get what I want, and you fell for it, didn’t you? More than that, you reveled in it.”

  What?

  “Poor little rich princess, exiled all these years. Did it make you feel good to fuck a man so wholly inappropriate? Did it recall the days of your youth when your legs were open to anyone with a cock. But then there were rumors of girls, too, weren’t there? Did you compare them?”

  Shock fled as anger flared. “You don’t get to say that—”

  “But then, I played you perfectly, didn’t I? I got to fuck a princess. I wonder, if I play my cards right, if I’ll get to fuck a queen?”

  Fury was a pound in her head, and she dearly wanted to hit him, but she knew what he was doing. “Sebastian, this will only go so far. Don’t push me.”

  “Push you?” He laughed harshly. “I could push you, Princess. If I chose, I could push you to do whatever I wanted. I could—”

  Slapping her hands onto his shoulders, she shoved him backward. Surprise lit his gaze, stilled his tongue, and he tumbled onto the bed.

  Straddling him, she held his wrists to the mattress. He was rigid beneath her, filled with tension. “You don’t get to say this, Sebastian. You don’t get to lie to me about this. You’re hurting, and I’m sorry for that, but just because you feel pain doesn’t mean you can denigrate me and what we are. Tell me.” Linking her hands with his, she gentled her tone. “Tell me what’s hurting you.”

  For the longest moment, he stared at her. Then he closed his eyes, swallowed. “I can’t, Thalia.”

  He’d used her name. Thank the Maiden. “Yes, you can. Tell me.” Leaning forward, she brushed her lips over his brow, his cheek. “Please, Sebastian. Tell me.”

  A great shudder went through him. “Do you think I killed them?” His words were soft, barely there.

  She could give him truth, and that was a kind of comfort. “I don’t know.”

  His throat worked. “I didn’t mean to, but they…. They were hurting you. They wanted to take you. I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you.”

  Smoothing his hair, she said, “I know, Sebastian. You protected me.”

  His expression grew tortured. “But I shouldn’t have done it that way. I’m not him, not anymore.”

  Confusion creased her brow. “Who?”

  “The boy. The one who grew in Dyerston. The one with no name but the one he gave himself, no value but what his fists brought.” He shuddered under her hands. “Once, I used my fists. I used them to fight for myself and to fight for others, but that doesn’t matter anymore because I’ve made something of myself. Something of worth. Something no one can dispute. And it doesn’t matter who that boy was, what he did. I made of myself a new man. I became Sebastian, and now I am tailor, second only to the crown. I will not become him again. I won’t.”

  “Sebastian, shh.” Desperation filled her, desperation and panic. She didn’t know how to make it better, how to make him better, and it tore at her, the anguish in his voice, the torment in his features. Lifting herself from him, she settled at his side, her hand stroking his cheek. “Shh.”

  He grabbed her like a lifeline. “I can’t become him again, Thalia.”

  “I know.” She touched her forehead to his. “I know.”

  “I can’t. I can’t.” He mumbled the words over and over, his grip on her arm almost painful.

  For the longest time, they stayed thus, she trying to sooth him and he silent and still. Eventually, she knew they had to move. “Sebastian. We need to clean you.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Sebastian?”

  Still no response. Slowly, she drew him to sit and unlaced his shirt. He allowed her, his face blank as she lifted it over his head.

  She bit her lip. His chest was a mass of bruises still forming, red marks that would soon darken to blue and then black.

  He didn’t protest when she left him to gather water and cloth, merely watched her with dull eyes. Returning, she sank beside him, and she wiped his chest, his shoulders. Taking his hand in hers, she ran the damp cloth over the abused flesh, drawing her breath at the hurt he had suffered, at the pain he had doled out.

  He’d been savage, pounding her attackers with a strength born of single-minded focus. She’d always known there was more to him than the foppish tailor. She hadn’t known he was deadly. Finally, she could clean him no more. She took the bowl to the bench, and when she turned back, he had curled on the bed, his hands between his knees. Silently, she slid behind him, her chest to his back as she gently stroked the damp golden strands of his hair.

  Eventually, she fell asleep, too.

  The next day, when she woke, he told her in a dead voice he would deliver her to the palace, and that was what he did.

  Then he left.

  Chapter Twelve

  From beyond the door, the sound of laughter and music drifted. Though the ball had begun over an hour before, Thalia waited in this chamber with only her guardians as companions. She was to be officially presented to the court, returned triumphant from the crown heir’s Trip. The time of her presentation approached, but she wasn’t nervous. Not in the slightest.

  Twisting her fingers together, she stared at the door. Over a month since she’d come home, a month that saw a stilted greeting from her father, a flurry of lessons on the events of the last seven years, and a plethora of deportment and etiquette lessons. It seemed she’d lost her poise and her abil
ity to flatter, at least according to Madame Daphne, the bane of her existence. Her old deportment teacher had been appalled at the state of her garb and manners upon their reintroduction and had taken it upon herself to instruct Thalia in how to greet her subjects, how to hold herself, what fabrics would best suit her—

  She exhaled. Well, maybe she was a tad nervous.

  “Thalia.” She turned to find Bharia at her side, the black of her formal uniform not detracting from her ever-present daggers. Stahg stood beside her, silent as always and austerely handsome in his own formal uniform. “Are you ill?”

  “No.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  Bharia nodded at Thalia’s hands. “You’ve twisted wrinkles into your gloves.”

  Aghast, Thalia looked down. “Damn all the gods and their disciples. Madame Daphne will have my head.” She tore the gloves from her hands.

  A smile played about Bharia’s mouth. “Oh, no. The evening is ruined.”

  She shot Bharia a scowl. “I can order people’s deaths, you know.”

  The guardian just grinned.

  She’d been reunited with her guardians not a day after she’d returned to the palace. She’d woken from a fitful sleep, looked about the room that had been hers since birth, and she’d spied the silent presence of Bharia and Stahg, guarding her in her sleep. Feeling overwhelmed at the sight of them, gratitude and relief and happiness, she’d been unable to contain herself, rushing to them and throwing an arm around each. Stahg had awkwardly patted her on the back, but Bharia had returned the embrace just as fiercely, brandishing admonishments on Thalia’s stupidity in traveling on without them. In between, Bharia had told of their journey back to Queenstor, of learning Thalia had left with the tailor on the merchant ship, and of securing their own swift passage back.

  Then Bharia had asked of Sebastian.

  Discarding her gloves on a decorative table, Thalia swallowed and forced her thoughts away. She had no desire to relive the memory of him any time soon. It was bad enough she would see him tonight…and that he’d designed for her the perfect gown.

  She smoothed her hands over her stomach. In shades of copper and bronze, the bodice hugged her torso, the neckline following the curve of her collarbone. The soft leather harness was studded with a material one thought was glass until one touched and discovered glass could never be so soft. A sash gathered at her shoulder and spilled down the bodice of her gown onto the skirt, a wild profusion of bronze fabric. Breath shuddered through her at the memory of his hands tracing the gown on her body, the memory of his passion and his laughter.

  “I saw the tailor earlier. He is in attendance,” Stahg said quietly.

  Rubbing her dry eyes, she straightened her back and pretended herself unaffected. “So he should attend. He is the tailor, after all.”

  “Yes.” Stahg studied her.

  Thalia smoothed her features of all expression, bar polite inquiry. She was fairly certain she’d fooled Stahg not at all, but the guardian remained ever inscrutable.

  They were interrupted by the opening of the door. Her father entered the room, clothed in his robes of state. As was tradition, a new set had been made with the appointment of each tailor, and she could see Sebastian’s hand in them, could see his daring in the slightly too-fitted waist, in the intricacy of the embroidery on the sleeve. He’d designed a robe meant for matters of state to hint at the form beneath and had made it, of all things, flattering.

  Her father stopped before her, his austere features gray and careworn. He’d grown old in the years she’d been away, and his heart had never been strong.

  She shoved such cares aside and arranged a smile on her face. “Father.”

  “Thalia.” He seemed not to know what to say. “You look well. The tailor has outdone himself.”

  Just as uncertain, she smoothed her hands over her stomach. “Thank you.”

  They stood in awkward silence. It had always been thus. She had but fleeting memories of her mother, and her father had never known what to do with a lively girl of four. He’d left her to nursemaids and tutors, and she’d grown in the care of such servants, the twice-daily audiences with her father more a recitation of what she’d learned than anything of affection.

  “I am glad you’ve returned,” he said abruptly.

  Surprise forced her gaze to him. He’d welcomed her upon her arrival at the palace in front of his courtiers and his government and the hundreds of commoners who’d packed the entrance hall. He’d spoken to her since but always wearing the mantle of king. A small thread of something approaching hope wound through her. Could her father be saying he missed her as a father might miss his child?

  His features were as austere as ever, but there was something there, some hint of emotion. Then, as if a curtain were drawn, it disappeared. “We are pleased.”

  Bitter disappointment crashed through her, and defiance, her old companion, prompted her tongue. “Are we? How fabulous. Maybe I shall see how many others are pleased?”

  Her father exhaled. “Thalia….”

  “No, no, I’m sure all my friends have missed me terribly.” She smiled, a pretty, empty-headed smile. “After all, we used to have such fun together, and I’ve been seven years without them. I wonder if they’ve learned anything new.” Covering her mouth, she opened her eyes wide as she tittered. “Oh, but I should not discuss such things with you.”

  His expression hardened. “Don’t embarrass me.”

  Her smile turned tight. “Father, I should never do so! Why, those other peccadillos were completely not of my doing. You’ve only to ask anyone.” She laughed, and she hated the sound of that laugh, the one she’d used before her Trip, the one she used to hide her hurt.

  “In any event, we can’t change it.” He held out his arm. “Come, Thalia. It’s time.”

  With a gay smile, she took her father’s arm and proceeded to chatter, playing the dizzy, foolish girl he clearly expected her still to be, and she pretended it didn’t break her heart that he couldn’t see she’d changed.

  ***

  Smiling though her face ached, Thalia greeted yet another in the never-ending line of guests. He offered a pretty greeting and introduced his wife, and Thalia was obliged to offer a few moments of conversation, though her feet hurt and her stomach was on the verge of revolt. Her head throbbed from the unfamiliar weight of her upswept hair, and the gown that had been so comfortable two hours ago now felt a prison. The courtier and his wife moved on, and she greeted the next in line, only to be asked the same questions and give the same answers. She’d been playing this game for over an hour, and she was more than ready for it to end.

  A woman broke from the ranks and rushed to envelope her in soft, perfumed arms. “Tali! Oh my, it’s so grand you’ve returned!”

  The scent of lavender and roses assaulted her, and frizzy red hair tickled her nose. “Cali?”

  Her old friend pulled back, her wide smile infectious. “Of course it’s me, silly! Why, I can’t believe it’s been so long since I last saw you! It is so, so grand you’ve returned! Or did I already say that?”

  Thalia’s head ached even worse as she tried to follow Cali’s conversation. “I think you did.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Cali took Thalia’s hands in hers. “You simply must allow me to visit you. We’ve so much to catch up on! I’m Marquise Ghanlia, if you can believe it!”

  From the depth of her memory, she dredged the Marque Ghanlia, a reed-thin boy with dark hair and a perpetual sneer. “You married Ghally?”

  “I did! Oh, we have so, so much to catch up on. Promise you will allow me to call. Tomorrow! And, of course, we must organize a party for you to celebrate your return! Simply everyone will be there. You know how our people adored your parties!”

  “I’m not certain about a party, Cali. I have a lot to catch up on—”

  Cali pouted. “Oh, but you need to have some fun, Tali. You can’t just lock yourself away with dusty books and boring lessons.”

  “I—”
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  “No, I simply shan’t hear of it! Tomorrow we will organize a party! Oh, but they’re hurrying me along. Tomorrow, Tali!” she called as the next person in line started their greeting.

  Her thoughts disordered, Thalia replied by rote. Surely she had never been that silly, without a care for anything but frivolity? She knew she had been, though, that before the Trip, she’d been just as consumed by the next pleasure. However, she wasn’t that girl anymore and hadn’t been for the longest time. It didn’t matter that her father couldn’t see it and neither could her friends. She knew who she was, and she would behave in a manner to make herself proud.

  She’d been a fool to act the flibbertigibbet with her father, to make him believe she’d not changed. She couldn’t expect everyone to accept her as she was. When last they’d seen her, she’d been just as Cali, desirous of nothing more than fun. She would have to show them she’d changed through action and deed.

  With a new kind of determination, she arranged a brighter smile on her face and greeted the next person. She would endure this with grace and good will, and she would— Her smile froze.

  Sebastian.

  He stood three people away, and though he looked not at her, though he appeared as if he were supremely bored, she couldn’t help but drink him in. His clothing was exquisite, more dazzling than anything she’d seen before. He wore a coat of emerald and gold, shining in the blaze of candlelight, while his formal breeches were a lighter green, and his slippers were set with what could only be emeralds. A wig of purest white set with strands of gold curled to magnificent perfection about a face made dramatic with cosmetics, his falsely dark eyes seeming larger and his lips painted to appear blood red. He possessed a terrible kind of beauty, one that stole her breath.

  And he was completely untouchable.

  Her stomach dropped. She couldn’t do it. By the Mother and the Saint, she couldn’t greet him and pretend everything was well, not when he looked such exquisite perfection. She couldn’t—

  She curtseyed sharply. “Thank you for your attendance,” she managed, and then, she abandoned the line.