by Kaplan, EM
"Control yourself, Mel," her mother said behind her Mask without a single movement. Sound from a statue. Mel could have screamed, but she was suddenly overcome with a wave of shame. It crested over her as she forcibly drew breath and fought for control. Her mother hadn't had to speak a warning aloud to her since she was a child. This should be getting easier, not worse. Her control should be improving, not slipping more and more. She wanted to strike out, to rant, to break things under her feet. Shouldn't it be getting easier?
She closed her eyes and lay back against the bench. To calm herself, she took deep breaths in time with the gentle rocking of the sled. She drew a breath in. The whisper of sled runners on the hard-packed snow. She pushed the breath out. The draw of the reins in the driver's leather-covered fingers. She stretched her mind, careful to avoid healing the gash on her head though it tingled and throbbed. She unknit her anger, her irrational outburst that had never come out, though it hovered below the surface like a bubble waiting to break through a layer of oil on the surface of a pot of boiling water.
She traveled with the emotion through the cotton cloth at her head, head to cloth, through blood to her fingertips. She radiated out from her fingers in coils of heat, floated up into the ceiling of the covered sleigh. Through grains of wood, hewn by hands just years ago. She traveled the tree from which the sled was carved, through its felling, through the moisture in its roots, deep into the earth, into the green pockets embedded deep in the stone, watery rivulets, veins that led out from the core. It was green underground. Green like Ott's eyes. Mel's eyes shot open.
Chapter 24
Ott watched his sister stomp into the house. She cursed under her breath, which was something she never did in front of the boys. The littlest one, Jamie, the one who looked most of all like Ott, took a running start and catapulted himself onto Ott's lap for the fourth time in as many minutes. All three boys had identical, closely-shaven heads. He knew their hair was like his, thick, sandy brown, and unruly if left long. His sister kept their heads shaved out of convenience. She could examine them for bumps, gashes, head bugs, or dirt at a glance, and with three of them, who could blame her. She had the house and grounds set up for self-sufficiency, like a blind man able to count the steps from door to bed with how many paces to the coat track between. Tidy and tight for the winter.
Jenny banged pots around the kitchen, making enough noise to ward off whatever evil spirits might be in the immediate area. Or, at this noise level, possibly anything above ground. An instant later, the door opened again, and Rob came in looking flushed from the cold. Ott caught Jamie before the boy hit his lap again, narrowly avoiding injury to any future progeny of his own, and stood to greet his friend. It had been less than a day since he'd seen Rob, but he'd missed him more than he liked to admit. Staying in the house was stifling. Though it had soft chairs, warmth, and small faces with eyes like his, who had screamed in pleasure to find him sleeping in their sitting room that morning when they awoke, Ott felt like he didn't belong there anymore. Frankly, he was starting to feel that he didn't belong anywhere.
He glanced at his big friend as his sister continued her assault on the crockery. Rob looked distinctly uncomfortable, stock still in full coat and boots, now dripping melted snow on Jenny's floor. Ott looked back at Jenny, who pointedly refused to meet either of their eyes. Ott wondered if one of them had at last made a declaration to the other. They'd been mincing around each other since childhood. As usual there were always obstacles and complications, like Jenny's bastard of a husband.
It had killed Ott, later, to learn of the abuse his sister had suffered at the hands of the man who had vowed to love and care for her till the end of his days. Ott had witnessed their exchange of vows. That day, his sister had looked young and happy, and plump with hope. She could have been a tradeswoman, a cook, or . . . well, not a seamstress, but near about anything she’d wanted. She was a good deal smarter than he was, Ott knew, and a much harder worker. Where he had lucked into most of the fortune that smiled on him, Jenny had earned everything she had now by the sweat of her brow and plain perseverance. She had found the man whom she had thought would stand up beside her all her livelong days, for whom she had thrown away so many chances in her life.
And for what? For false promises. And for worse, harsh beatings and infidelity. Ott cursed himself for his long absences and for failing her as a brother. He had never known she suffered so much at the hands of the man who should have cherished her. She had hidden her bruises well, even from him. Well, good riddance to her long-gone husband, and best of luck to his new fool wife, who had lain with an adulterer and who would be paying for her mistake with the currency of flesh and skin.
The boys were getting on their boots and wrappings. Ott had promised them a romp in the snow to look for winter hare and to get them out of Jenny's hair. He stood, clearing his throat, which set Rob back in motion, if only an awkward shuffling to the side and a tentative loosening of the scarf at his neck. Ott reached for his own coat and without a word, followed the boys out into the snow.
Chapter 25
Rob heard the door close behind him. He removed his coat and slowly shucked his wet boots at the door by Jenny's tiny boots. Even without his, he towered over her as he approached. The kitchen was steamy and smelled like yeast. She was kneading dough, rolling it into ropes, and braiding it. Her dark eyes were cast down, thick lashes hiding them. A wisp of dark, silky hair curled down from her forehead—a forehead that was wrinkled in consternation. What he wouldn’t give to smooth that worry from it. Flushed cheeks smoothed down her face to her soft, gently pointed, obstinate chin. He moved closer and then closer, but still she refused to look at him, pressing her lips together tightly. She finished her doughy braids and covered them with a limp white cloth, then wiped her hands on her apron, having to tuck her elbows into her sides because he stood that close.
All of his thoughts, everything that usually weighed his shoulders down—his father, the mines, the people suffering in tents in front of the gates of the house, the monsters underground, Ott's beautiful dead girl—all of it fled in the presence of this woman. Jenny. His Jenny. All roads pointed to her. Even when he was home, lying in his bed in the dark, at the dining table across from Harro or the others, everything inside of him pointed across the field to this low wooden house, to this dark-haired woman with the small, strong hands that she now held limply to her sides, hidden in the folds of her gray, worn skirts. She looked the same as always to him.
Gently, very gently, he cupped her flushed cheek, engulfing her face with his clumsy hand, his fingers coming up behind her ear. Then he leaned down and, gentler still, brushed her warm mouth with his lips. Only when he broke away and stood straight did she raise her eyes to his, piercing him with their sword edge sharpness. A flicker of disbelief crossed her face. She tried to speak and had to work her throat before she could.
She said, "Still? Even now, you would want me?"
He rubbed his thumb across her lips, not as gently this time. "Would, yes. And do."
Jenny stared at him, looking at the lines of his sun-darkened skin that she had long since stopped memorizing again and again, and listened to the rumbling words issued deep in his throat. She would not let herself cry. Not then, not now, and not ever, for whatever reason. Instead, she put her hand in the center of his chest and pushed. She pushed him—but not away, because she went with him. She walked him backwards till the back of his legs hit the wood of a kitchen bench. He sat down heavily, though the sturdy chair didn't so much as creak under his considerable weight. She let him gather her between his knees, his hands on her hips. Now, nearly eye to eye, she took his face between her palms, stroking his dark, smoothly shaven skin with her thumbs. He had a straight mouth, given neither to smiles nor grimaces, just neutral normally, but now, the lips were parted slightly, anticipating hers.
The flush of warmth that traveled from her neck into her cheeks now traveled downward into her chest, then to her belly. She touched
her lips to his, gentle suction on his wind-burned lower lip. His breath came in rapid pants, mingling with hers, mint-flavored from her gum, which she realized had slipped down her throat. She closed her eyes and leaned toward him, bringing their mouths together again. Her hands traveled through his dark hair. It was smooth, untangled, carefully groomed since he'd returned from traveling. He could give her brother a lesson or two about tidying up. With a start, she realized that Rob had taken special pains for her. The idea that he had dressed for her, cleaned his teeth for her, and thought about her while moving around his bedchamber, shut down all anxieties, the banal worries in her mind. She parted his lips with her tongue, and a low sound of arousal came from his throat. His hands tightened around her waist, lifting her.
Her skirts frustrated her, bunching between them. When he broke their kiss to slide his mouth down to her neck, she gathered her skirts up and straddled his lap, pressing herself against him. He buried his face into the loose neckline of her dress, voicing a hoarse groan. His head tipped back for a moment, eyes closed, as he sought air. Her hair escaping her band and falling into her eyes, she watched him, and his eyes flashed open, locking on hers. She said his name, more like an oath or a vow, and he answered in a wordless ascent.
Chapter 26
Foolish hope, Treyna thought, as she stood in the tent city. The people were restless, but still thought they could make the best of it. Of course they did. Dumb optimism flourished when the sun was shining. People had been set to building temporary structures. And the act of moving their hands, doing any old thing, lulled them into thinking that things would all work out in the end. The young master called Rob had walked among them the day before and his men passed through constantly now, overseeing their progress. There was talk that soon they would be back in their homes and back to work again. Perhaps even before winter set in, they speculated, though the chill rattled their teeth, and hunger made their children whimper.
Treyna was figuring out where she wanted to set up her place of business under the new structures. She wanted a quiet corner where visitors could come to her without fear of being judged, though those now close enough to see comings and goings shoved their eyes away without commenting on her customers. Or on her either, she realized. She was doing a fair trade even without Jonas's oversight. Many people, men and women alike, sought the balm of her soothing hands and salves, even in this makeshift camp. Even stranger, her children found care and companionship among the other women and children in the tent city. They, too, were taken in without judgment. She made enough coin and traded food and goods to bring wealth to the people directly around her, so they never minded her as long as her visitors minded their manners, a preference she also shared.
Jonas had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the construction of the temporary shelter. She scarcely saw him, which suited her just fine. She didn't care much for him other than for his ability to keep away harm. He was never a physically abusive spouse—yes, he was her husband and not her father as he sometimes tried to pass for being. But she much preferred his neglect to his attention, whatever the type. Maybe her mother had recognized his non-violent tendencies before selling Treyna to him.
Jonas had had her working by age twelve, before she was even full grown. A few years after that, he had taken her as his wife. She was later than most girls in becoming fully a woman, thank the good gods, or else she would have had more children by now. She wondered, idly, where they were. They were innocent kids, but not hers. She bore them, true, but she was not their mother. Jonas named them, fed them, disciplined them, and otherwise owned them. And when it came time, she assumed he would do with them what he did with her. Make them profit him one way or another. Or maybe even outright sell them. She hoped they would not come to harm. They were sweet, though the middle one couldn't speak. Treyna had no memory of being a child herself. With remote curiosity, she sometimes watched them play or sleep together as they did, in a pile.
That, she didn't understand—how they could want to be near others while they slept, being touched while they were so vulnerable. She preferred not to be touched when she wasn't watching, alert, and eyes open. Oh, she didn't mind selling her services to the agamite miners. They were short, stocky people, silent by nature. Hard workers and deserving of her ministrations. They transacted their business and left her alone. They were tidy, too, though fingers were usually stained green from being with the agamite all day. It got up in the skin and didn't wash off after a time. If a miner held his or her fingers up to the light, sometimes there would be a slight sparkle of green, like they'd dipped their hands into a pond and couldn't dry them off. Ponds. Now that was something she hadn't seen in a while. Not since they'd come north above the snowline.
"Tell me about the good-looking one with the green eyes," Treyna had started out saying the other day, and the women in the camp had taken off with it and gossiped without any more prodding from her.
"You mean Ott. Half the girls here have batted eyes at him. He was never one to turn them away either." They smiled indulgently, and Treyna knew why. She'd felt his pull also, though his eyes were not as twinkly and his curving mouth not as flirtatious as they all described. He seemed downright wounded to her. Like an animal in a bad temper because of a wounded paw. She listened to their chuckling words about him and tried to decide whether she wanted to do anything about it. It was in her to try. She didn't have the natural instincts of a nursemaid, but she had learned over time how to tend to a body. And one as blessedly attractive as he was, broad shoulders atop a lean frame, had made her consider the effort worthwhile in his case. It wasn't just the body though. It was something else, like being god-kissed. A person just wanted to be around him. But still, tending to him would be something she'd be doing for him, not herself. Letting him heal himself with no benefit to her . . . because he'd heal up and then be gone. Though he was a soothing sight to see.
Treyna was drinking the weak but hot broth they served at the kitchen tent when two men from the big house walked by her tent. The master was not with them. She was now aware that the bigger of the men who had carried the kids from their broken-down carriage was the young master of the entire house. Not much to look at, she reckoned, though he carried some power in his step. Didn't like to throw it around. Hard to believe he was the owner of all this. The house, the land, and the mines themselves. They said his sick father still drew breath, but clearly this man was their master. She watched his men, not bothering to offer her services as they strode by.
They saw her, knew what she was about, and didn’t bother themselves with it. Among them was a large one with a closely-trimmed beard. They averted their eyes when they passed her tent. She idly wished for more. She allowed herself a rare moment of fantasy, drawing her fingers over the fairly fine cloth on her table, taking out the thought once again—like a pretty stone from her pocket—that the young master's friend Ott would come by. He had such pretty green eyes and full mouth. The broadness to that one’s shoulders said he was strong, but that strength was from use, not from breeding. Him, she wouldn’t mind touching.
Footsteps halted outside her tent. She set her mug down with patience and acceptance, probably more than someone of her years ought to have, but for her, it was acquired. Low voices, not angry, but forceful, talked outside. The cloth sign she used to show that she was engaged with a customer wisped against the tent, and then the tent flap was pushed aside. A dark, bearded face appeared, his body filling the entryway; he was one of the men from the house who had just passed by.
Treyna always looked at their faces first because she knew what meanness looked like. She couldn't outright avoid it, but she could at the least prepare for it, and usually, could take herself out of her mind to be as far away from it as she could. It could be hate in the eyes, or just as often, a certain deadness, a lack of life in the gaze. Jonas could protect her when meanness tried to return, but the proof was in the violent first visit. And no one could protect her from that. Two times that she
could remember, she'd had to turn away customers seeking her services for days while she recovered from bad sessions. Things like that, once lived through, were never far out of her mind, never forgotten. Especially when her will was weakened with hard spirits or ale. She found out the hard way that drink could bring the bad times back as though they were happening all over again here and now. She would never touch the stuff again. Cruelty had many faces, but only one personality. Everyone had a measure of it, true.
Except this one. This man showed none of that to her. She searched his brown eyes curiously until he dropped his gaze to his fingers, large hands with work-roughened knuckles. He picked at his fingernails restlessly until he realized what he was doing.
When he just stood there, she wondered if she would have to take the lead. She didn't take him for a man with shyness—sometimes they couldn't get the nerve to tell her what they wanted. But, suddenly, he put his coins on the table and came by her. He kicked off his boots, knelt in front of her on the blankets, putting his hands on her arms, and she felt her own face being studied as sure as she had studied his. Her heart pounded in her chest more than it usually did. Usually? Bah. Who was she fooling—just the good lady god Lutra knew—she never felt anything inside. This one. He was not ugly or rough, yet she shied away from his steady gaze and tried to set her eyes elsewhere.
His hand slid up her neck, thumb right in the tender part of her throat. He could see right through her and now feel her pounding pulse. Her breath increased, and she felt like a coward, a mountain ewe sheered clean of her coat, naked and left out in the open. She tried to shrug off the feeling, irritated with herself. But then she met his eyes. His thumb stroked her neck as he openly stared at her. His other hand smoothed her hair, gently as he might have been sitting in front of his fire at home petting a cat in his lap. She knew her eyes were moving back and forth in uncertainty. She must look like a child, she thought, eyes wide, trying to take in more things, just trying to figure things out. Like it was new to her.
