by Anna Steffl
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Degarius said.
She didn’t argue, though after the moons of sleeping on the ground it wouldn’t have bothered her to take the floor. “Do you need anything out of the trunk?” she asked as she opened it.
“My toothbrush.”
She searched through Mrs. Karlkin’s packing and the leather riding breeches they’d brought just in case they’d be taking the horses back from the Forbidden Fortress. She found his nightshirt, the toothbrushes, and a nightgown, yet another of Lina’s old things, yellowed and trimmed with fussy, itchy-feeling lace. “Do you want your nightshirt?”
“I’ll sleep in these,” he said of the breeches he was wearing. “I have another pair, right?”
“Yes.” The simple word yes felt odd as she spoke it. They were speaking about the mundane things of a life spent together. She unfolded her nightgown and held the shoulders to hers. “Do you mind?”
“Oh. While you change, I’ll get water.” He took the pitcher and left the room.
Arvana tossed the nightgown on the bed and reached to the back of her neck to remove the necklace. Ugh. She pried at the clasp every different way, but it didn’t release. If she pulled any harder, it might break. Why had he burdened her with this thing? He was going to have to take it off. If he broke it, it wouldn’t be her fault.
Wrenching her elbow behind her back, she started to unbutton the dress. She managed the bottom buttons and the top three, but no matter how she strained her shoulders, she couldn’t reach the ones in the middle. When Mrs. Karlkin had helped her into it, she hadn’t thought of the trouble it’d be to take off. What a stupid way to fashion a garment. She hated Lina’s dresses. Hated that they seemed to give the Gheria permission to leer at her. Hated that she couldn’t take them off herself. She sank on the bench in front of the fire.
Degarius knocked on the door before entering. Well, he wasn’t going to catch her in any state of undress. Not with three stubborn buttons in the middle of her back. She rose and crossed her arms. “I can’t get off this ridiculous dress. Or the necklace. The clasp is stuck.”
He sat the pitcher down and said, “Turn around.”
She pulled her hair to one side so he could see the necklace’s clasp.
“I need more light. Turn sideways to the fire,” he said.
The clasp clicked open. His fingers and the necklace lifted away from her skin. His arms reached around her and he held the necklace in front of her to take. It had been a weight around her neck and heart all day. Her stomach went hollow at having to accept it again, and this time from his hands. “Your father said it was your mother’s,” she blurted. “I don’t want to be responsible for it. It must mean a great deal to you. You brought it as a keepsake, but I can’t bear the thought that if something happens to it, it’s my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
She couldn’t face him. “You brought it as a keepsake of something good in your life, of your mother. I don’t know. A reminder that there are things worth fighting for.”
He laughed uneasily. “Don’t you know what a gift is?”
Not this argument again. “Most people don’t give gifts via their housekeeper who’s told to say ‘Here, you need this to look proper.’”
He said nothing.
“I don’t want to be the caretaker of anything else.” Why was every burden thrust on her? His medal. The Blue Eye. Her father in his last, unbearable days. His mother’s engagement jewels. She wanted to throw the damn necklace against the wall. Who cared how expensive it was or what it meant to him? It was nothing to her. She spun around and grasping the necklace in her fist, struck it to his chest. “Take it back.” His hand flew to hers. She wanted to pull away, fling the necklace to the floor, but he pressed her fist harder into his chest. “I don’t want it.”
“All of this is my family’s fault. I wanted to make it up to you somehow.”
“I never blamed you,” she said and darted a spiteful look to him, but he wore a look she’d never seen on his face before. The penitence in his eyes took her breath and anger away.
“I had to do this the only way I could,” he said.
“I never blamed you.”
“I know. It is a gift. Please keep it.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re not a Solacian anymore.”
She dropped her chin to her chest and closed her eyes. She wasn’t a Solacian anymore. “I don’t know what I am.”
“Ari.” His fingertips lighted on her brow and traced down over her temple.
She opened her eyes. His face was so close. Though he’d said he gave the necklace and ring to her in compensation for her having to deal with the aftermath of Lina’s choices, his touch and his eyes said otherwise. His thumb grazed across her bottom lip, a whisper of a touch, but her heart raced. Her eyelids drifted shut, and she leaned forward to meet his mouth, and after one tentative brush of their lips, it was as if a rainstorm opened up inside her. She couldn’t be tender. A downpour couldn’t be a shower. She kissed him hard, tasted the liquor that was still on his tongue.
He pushed her hand still holding the necklace from his chest and drew her body full into his. His hands swept inside the unbuttoned top of the back of her dress, almost tearing at the thin fabric of her chemise. He kissed into the deep recess between her jaw and neck while his hands moved down her body to her hips.
Then, in a motion of pure grace, he dropped to his knees before her. He took the necklace from her hand, put it on the bench, and gazed up at her with a look that made her ache with emptiness. She reached to the bodice of the dress and pulled out the relic and took if off. That wasn’t her burden now, either.
She lifted his glasses from his face. Would his eyes never cease to startle her? She bent to put the glasses and relic on the bed.
His arms encircled her waist and his forearms reached up her back. Gathering her to him, he buried his face in her body. His chest heaved with hard breaths against her.
Arvana pulled the already loose binding from his ponytail and ran her fingers through his hair, warm and soft next to his scalp, deliciously cool at the ends. How wonderful his face felt, the day-grown stubble rough in one direction, smooth in the other. She ran her forefinger over the ridges of his bottom teeth. Everything, she wanted to know everything about him.
Like the wind takes a leaf and floats it to the ground, she felt as if something outside of her own force eased her to her knees. Her hands were on his shoulders, so wide and powerful. After slipping her fingers under his jacket, she kneaded the thick muscles at the sides of his neck until his head lolled back and he exhaled a long sigh. She took the jacket’s lapels, opened them wide, and eased them over his shoulders. He shook his arms from the sleeves and sloughed the jacket behind him. She pulled the ribbon closing the collar of his blouse, and, looking into his eyes, gave a silent command he obeyed in one swift motion—he untucked his blouse from his trousers and billowed it over his head. He wasn’t embarrassed or self-conscious. Why should he be? He’d worked long and endured much to be strong. The firelight glowed on the swells of his muscles. Arms hanging to his sides, he became still, allowed her eyes to linger on the scar across his chest, then her finger to trace its length. His body was a book of stories, but it wasn’t time to hear them now.
Degarius took her hand from where it rested on his chest over his heart and kissed her fingers, one by one. Did she know how beautiful she was and what it did to him? Though he’d dreamed of this night after night, his imagination was a damned inferior thing. It never really knew the intoxicating smell of her. How indescribably soft her skin was. The sensation ignited by her finger skimming down his chest. He reached around and undid the buttons she hadn’t been able to reach. Her back arched at his touch. He edged the dress from one of her shoulders. Her hand didn’t rush to return it to place. Instead, she flexed her shoulders together and allowed him to pull one sleeve, then the next from her arms. The dress fell in a pool about her knees.
He spread his jacket behind her, wadded his shirt into a pillow, then laid a hand to her shoulder and guided her backward until she lay on the floor atop the bed he’d made. Her hair fanned in glorious dark auburn waves over the white of his shirt. She titled up her hips and he eased the dress from her. The filmy, white chemise she wore underneath the dress reached midthigh. Her back arched when he lightly stroked from her knee to her breast. There was a Maker and a paradise, but they sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with being dead. Then, as he’d thought of doing a thousand times, he knelt straddling her thighs and started to push the chemise up when she held up a hand, palm out, as if she was going to say no. But she laid her hand on his stomach and traced down the fine line of hair to his breeches.
“I want to know,” she said.
“I do, too,” he replied and kissed her.
SNOW
Degarius woke to warmth, to the softness of her body curled into his, and went hard with desire. He wanted to love her again and again. Would there be any greater sweetness than to wake to this every morning of his life? He eased to his elbow. In the faint morning light, her hair was a dark tangle upon the pillow. Should he wake her? He reached to brush her hair from her neck to kiss it but then saw the chain around her neck and remembered where he was and why. She hadn’t forgotten. She’d been up during the night and put on the damned thing.
What the hell kind of man was he, taking her to the Forbidden Fortress to battle not just a draeden, but The Scyon? After his battle with the immature poison draeden, by some miracle, an old healer at the Outpost had saved his feet. He had nearly lost them, and when he first had to stand upon them, the pain was so excruciating that he almost wished he had. What would the fire draeden do to her? It was unbearable to imagine. What if she carried the beginning of their child? She wasn’t with moon blood, so it was possible.
He rolled to his back and the heat of her body dissipated from his. Why the hell couldn’t they just leave this mission to someone else? Hundreds of thousands depended upon them, but why and how had they become their responsibility? Why must they sacrifice their own happiness for others they didn’t love, or even know? Because fate had put the damn relics in their hands before they met. Perhaps if they just walked away from this, they would be happy together for a time, but blackness would eat their consciences and love once the draeden set upon the world. Damn it, why was he even thinking about this. What did she say last night? She wanted to know, know before...damn the Maker. She had never lain with a man. When she woke, would she regret it? Of course, she would. She was good. Though she gave up her novice’s ring, she never broke her vows until last night. She couldn’t even accept the necklace. How could she accept making love to a man who hadn’t promised to be her husband, had used her only for his pleasure? Damn it, that’s not true. Still, he hoped she regretted it, hoped she despised him, because he couldn’t bear a look of tenderness when he had to hand her into the coach this morning for the last time.
He eased out of bed. It was freezing. He found his breeches, pulled them on, then dropped to the floor to do his morning push-ups, but his coat was there and the memory of her lying upon it. He put on his blouse and the coat and then gathered her dress and chemise. Before laying them on the foot of the bed, he held them to his face to smell her body one more time. Then, as quietly as he could, he made a fire.
What time was it? He went to the window and widened the narrow slit in the drapery. It was snowing. Damn it all to hell. Snow. “We need to get going.”
The voice floated into Arvana’s half-awake mind. She thought she’d not slept at all, but here she was opening her eyes. The covers were thrown back from Nan’s side of the bed. Watery-gray morning light lit the room. As she rolled over, a cold spot in the sheets glided over her breasts, a sudden reminder that she was naked except for the Blue Eye. After Nan fell asleep, she’d gingerly moved his heavy arm from her chest and crept around the bed to retrieve the relic. If a thief stole in, she’d never forgive herself for what some would already say the Maker held as an unforgivable act.
Dressed, Nan was looking out the window. He’d made a fire and laid her clothes over the foot of the bed. He must have been awake for some time, perhaps already finishing the countless push-ups she’d seen him do every morning in Cumberland.
He hadn’t stayed in bed with her.
“It’s snowing,” he said without turning to her.
Snow? She hadn’t seen snow since leaving Sylvania. “Is there much on the ground?”
“Not yet, but I’d like to leave as soon as we can.”
Sitting up, Arvana held the blanket to her chest. It seemed ridiculous asking him to leave the room while she dressed, considering what happened last night. Still, she’d feel foolish climbing out of bed, naked and shivering. He was standing there, hands clasped behind his back, as if nothing had happened—or, as if everything had happened and staring out the window was all he could do. She couldn’t tell.
She grabbed the chemise, pulled it over her head, and unfurled it to her waist. She shimmied it over her hips. There, she could get up. She peeled the covers back and swept her feet to the floor. Brown dry blood streaked the inside of her thighs and bottom sheet. After the fire had dimmed, he'd lifted her to the bed and loved her again beneath the warm covers. She had ruined the sheets and her body was dirty. The ugliness of both stains embarrassed her. The lining of his coat, too, must be stained. It wasn’t moon blood; it wasn’t that time. It was the part of her body she’d once sworn to keep intact as a sign she’d not be distracted by lust from the purer love of the Maker. She smoothed the chemise down and yanked the covers over the bed stains.
Facing away from him, she stepped into the dress. As soon as she’d arranged the skirt, she heard him walking toward her. He’d been listening, waiting for her dress to be ready for buttoning. His fingers touched the bottom button, and she began to tremble. What if he wanted to love her again? He would see the stains. She held her body rigid, but she had to fight to keep her breathing calm. Any moment, he’d kiss her neck. He wouldn’t mind the stains. They were from his body, too. Her spine tingled in mixed dread and expectation.
His fingers just went from button to button. Perhaps when he reached the top he’d linger on her skin. But his fingers lifted, and she heard him step away. The tingling changed to a chill.
“One more thing.” She bent, picked up the necklace, and held it to him. A small hope glimmered that he’d close the clasp, and his arms, around her.
Without ceremony, he fastened it and walked away.
She crossed her arms tight across her chest. She’d been wrong at not taking him for his word that he gave her the jewels to atone for the burden Lina’s past put on her. Without turning to look at him, she said, “I need to wash. It won’t take long.”
“I’m going to order the coach. I’ll see if there’s any coffee,” he said and left.
From the trunk, she removed her toothbrush and the breeches and boots she was to wear under her dress—in case they needed to ride from the Forbidden Fortress on horseback. She sat the breeches on the bed.
At the washstand, she brushed her teeth. A cloth wetted, she lifted her skirt and dabbed at the stains from his body and hers. How had she come to this? To standing alone in a cold room in Gheria, wiping away remnants of a forbidden deed? How could she have felt so full and complete last night, but empty and alone this morning? Everything she’d learned in Solace had warned her against the destructive, soul-gnawing power of lust. She’d recalled the lesson just moments ago, but promptly forgot it again at his touch. She didn’t blame Degarius. She’d said she wanted to know what it was to be with a man, and he’d obliged, twice. There was truth in it, but who was she fooling? She did want to know, but not about what it would be like to lay with any man. Just him. Once, she had wanted so fervently to be a shacra, and now she was scrubbing the last bit of brown from her legs. Visions of Hell hadn’t stopped her. There, her thighs were clean, but were a raw red fro
m rubbing. She folded the stains to the inside of the washcloth, laid it over the bowl’s rim, and took the comb she’d set out. Though the washstand had a small mirror, out of habit, she combed her hair without looking until the teeth caught in a snarl of tangled ends. As she leaned to the mirror to pick apart the knot of hair, she recalled how proud she’d been of her hair, how she thought Payter admired her for it. She’d gone on the sleigh without a hat just so the beauty of her hair would snare him. The teeth of the comb caught and snapped several hairs, but the tangle remained. By the Maker, it was a stubborn knot. She’d gone on the sleigh ride without a hat to show off her beauty. It had been nothing but trouble and vanity, this hair. It was what the superior should have taken from her. But she’d have looked like a prostitute with her hair shorn. They cropped their hair as a sign of cleanliness, not of sin. She wasn’t clean. The washcloth and bed sheets were stained. But if she cut her hair, severed the knot, she would be clean, free from the vanity that feeds lust.
The trunk still open, she found his shaving kit and took the razor. The blade was folded into ivory scales. Like everything he owned, it was simple but lovely and of high quality. Yet, he wasn’t owned by his things. He hardly seemed to note them. He was more a monk than she ever was a Solacian. His duty came before everything, even the home to which he did seem attached. She recalled the beauty of Ferne Clyffe, the pleasing way he’d situated the barns and the pretty bridge he’d had built after Lina passed. It was no sin to build a place that elevated one’s spirit here on this earth. What else was Solace? At the remembrance of the place, and how the draeden burned it, the reason why she was in the Gherian inn wormed its way back to the fore of her mind. She had to be quick about what she wanted to do; he would be waiting to leave for the Forbidden Fortress. After unfolding the razor blade from its ivory scales, she parted out a section of hair, held it out from her skull, and brought the razor to it. Finally, she’d have forsaken everything. Though she wore a fine dress and jewels, they didn’t belong to her and she didn’t desire them. Certainly, she didn’t desire the Blue Eye. She touched the band of his ring. No, she didn’t want that, either. Then, it struck her it was the only thing she hadn’t removed last night. Grief swelled behind her eyes, making her head feel ten times heavier than she’d imagined it was by being burdened with hair. She placed her thumb upon the top of the blade to refold it when the door opened behind her.
