by Tabitha Vale
“No!” Braya cried, meaning to grab her mother's sleeve, but missing when she stepped aside. “Please, Mother. We're both sorry for what we've done to anger you, but please—” Braya felt as if this were merely a replay of all her recent encounters with their mother.
Mother held her hand up to cut off Braya's plea. “I've had enough. This is not about anger, but about honor and shame and pride. Now get out of my house.”
“Mother, I know we haven't been honest with you about the medicine, and I made a mistake with my Interview, but please. Don't make us leave. We want to come home.”
“Out of the question,” Mother replied simply. “You've done more damage than you know of, and I will not continue to have you ruin the rest of my life.”
Trembling, as if physically struck, Braya's response got lodged in her throat.
“Get out of here,” Mother ordered, her features twisted grotesquely.
Aspen forced Braya down the hall. They passed a distraught Harmony on their way out, and Braya only hoped the woman would hold up a few more days until they got the cure. They needed Harmony's help, now more than ever.
Outside, on the doorstep, Sir Channing was standing, posed to knock. When he saw Braya, he gave her a tight-lipped grin. He nodded to her in acknowledgment, but didn't say anything.
Braya gaped at him and watched as he knocked and was admitted in. What was he doing here? First her Interview, then Leraphone, and now this? She was spluttering, ready to knock down the door to ask just what business he had at their house when she remembered what her mother had just said. This wasn't their house anymore.
Braya stepped away from the door—something burning in her chest, tears welling in her eyes—though she never tore her gaze from it as they walked to the car.
Aspen let out a great sigh. “Is that how a mother should act?”
Braya glared at him, furiously wiping away the tears. She'd never imagined it to become so bad with their mother. She felt like her world was crumbling to pieces at her feet. “You're not a mother yourself, so how can you judge her? It’s gotta be all the stress of her job...” But even as she said it, she felt wrong about it. It was like she was clawing at excuses now. Braya had spent her entire life idolizing that woman, observing her, mimicking her. She’d shadowed her mother to a deep enough extent to be able to tell when she was done with something. And indeed, it seemed as if Mother had finally tired of her daughter…
“She has no business being a mother,” Aspen said with a surprising amount of disgust.
“Stop saying those things!” She uttered in a soft, strained tone.
“When she stops saying those awful things—that's when I'll stop,” Aspen said resolutely.
Braya glared at him for the rest of the ride back, and it turned out to be an almost identical replay to their last ride back to the manor.
****
Back at the manor, Braya spotted Leraphone in the front courtyard as she and Aspen were arriving. Aspen continued into the Entrance Hall—she still had no idea why he never spoke to the blue frizz in person when he'd obviously been in contact with her somehow—and Braya waved the woman down, still slightly shaken from what had happened with their mother.
Leraphone greeted her in her usual dazed manner. “Braya, child, how hapless you look today.”
“Did you get the cure yet?”
“My, gracious, what happened to common courtesies? These days, you have something someone wants and they'll treat you however they please,” she bemoaned to herself. “But my child, exercise patience. I only just gained contact with Ophelia. I should have it soon, though.”
“Are you sure?” She asked anxiously.
“It is my best guess,” Leraphone said offhandedly. “But, dear, if you do not learn to be more flexible and expect variety, you will be unprepared to receive whatever else you may get in the process.”
With that, Leraphone brushed by and Braya was left standing in her wake trying to discern what she'd meant by that. When she entered the manor, she noticed Brielle and Emma—Maydessa notably absent—strolling toward the Great Hall. Braya assumed it must be time for lunch, and jogged to catch up to them.
“Hey, did you hear?” Brielle asked, gray eyes like starlight. “The Yorks made it to the championships this weekend!”
“Moon Tamers,” Emma reminded.
“Unfortunately, it's the same day as the weddings,” Brielle pouted, clutching her arm as if she were trying to see it through the fabric of her dress. “I'll have to miss it.”
“You can record it,” Emma intoned.
“That's not the same! Plus, it might be more exciting this time. They're all getting a bunch of new gear because all of the floating suits, batons, rings, and orbs have gone missing!” Brielle exclaimed.
“Most likely misplaced,” Emma countered.
Braya frowned. “All of it?” She thought back to the night she'd raced with the Locers up on the Petti. Were they the ones taking all of the gear? Surely they wouldn't need all of it just for ten of them to race? What could they possibly be doing with all of it?
“Yup,” Brielle shook her red curls, as if indignant.
“The Yorks are good enough, new gear or not, so stop worrying,” Emma said in bored tone as they reached the open doors to the Great Hall. The sweet aroma of baked food floated into the hall and Braya's stomach grumbled in response.
“I'm not worried!” Brielle insisted.
“You should be.”
Braya froze, eyes wide. Asher was nowhere near them, but she could have sworn that was his voice just then. It was definitely his footsteps she heard, too—why she could recognize the sound of his very ordinary footfalls against those of another person was beyond her. That could only mean that he was invisible. Brielle and Emma looked around them, too, as if puzzled by the sudden input.
“Who said that?”
Braya swallowed hard. “Oh, you must be hearing things. I didn't hear anything. I'm sure it was just my stomach grumbling.”
“Your stomach is quite masculine,” Emma remarked, her brow quirked.
Asher's voice was at her ear, “Meet me outside.”
“Yeah, well, you girls go ahead, I'll meet you in there in just a second,” Braya said hurriedly. There were only so many seconds she could delay his commands.
“But you just said you were hungry—”
“I don't have to explain myself to a Finch!”
It was enough to end their protests, but Braya felt bad about the hurt look on Brielle's face as they parted. Feeling surprisingly lousy, she went to meet Asher.
****
They were de-hazing in the Moon District—without Page, and when Braya had commented on that, Asher had merely said, “He's too tired and too weak to de-haze tonight,” in dismissal—and people were already preparing themselves for the upcoming game that weekend. Shops were selling team merchandise, colored flags lined the streets, and mascot-themed foods of the competing teams were being sold along the downtown markets.
“Why is your last name different from your mother's?” Asher asked as they perched themselves on the roof of a York merchandise shop facing a narrow alley. It was almost dark, and the sky was stained the dark pink and purple traces of a sunset. Streetlamps pooled into the alley below them and darkness crouched along the roof, waiting until the sun had completed its move into the horizon before it fanned over nearby rooftops. The smell of something fried and greasy wafted from the main street, and lively chatter about the upcoming Moon Tamer game was muffled by the sound of traffic puttering by.
Braya was struck surprised by the question. “I was supposed to earn her last name. Earn my spot in the family.”
“That's kind of cruel,” Asher mused, staring at their legs that dangled over the edge of the roof. “Maybe she's just not your real mother.”
“Shut up! That's not funny to joke about!” Braya shouted, punching him in the shoulder. It sent a pleasant jolt through her arm, and she instantly regretted it. Touching Asher in any way was burdened w
ith too many consequences these days. Would he think she liked him back? And what about the master-slave link, that had apparently been unleashed as a passion inducer ever since he'd made her touch the mark on his shoulder? She was relieved to know that the feelings she got whenever she touched him were not her own, but Asher continuously argued that they were her own feelings, that the master-slave link just helped her to experience them when she'd normally suppress them. Additionally, he liked to point out that the master-slave link had mostly been a tool for husbands to force their wives into doing whatever they wanted sexually, and to keep them faithful. She could only imagine why he had to bring that up so often.
“Well there's nothing I can joke about anymore,” Asher said, mockingly despaired. He was running his hands through his long dark hair, his silky blue eyes hovering on her. “You know my favorite is the magenta guys here. You always defend them in the fiercest way, though, so it takes the fun out of it.”
“So what? You're attacking me when you make fun of them, so how do you expect me to respond?” She asked, fixing him with an accusatory look.
“I'm not attacking you,” he clarified, his lips drawing into a straight line as he considered her for a long moment, “I'm merely attacking your beliefs.”
“They're beliefs formed on proof and observation,” she retorted, her head tilting back ever so slightly so she could feel the caress of his breath when he exhaled. “They're born with inferior capabilities, so why should I pretend it isn't so?”
Asher was receptive to her movement, and lowered his head to let his gaze sweep over her like a paintbrush soaked in blue. His voice misted over her skin as he replied, “You don't have to pretend. Merely look at it rationally. Why are they like that, and no other men outside Venus like that?”
“A Venusian trait?” Braya ventured a guess. Her mind was beginning to fog, her flesh craving his touch. “I don't care so much.”
“You should,” his answer sent chills across the plain of her back. “What if it were done to them on purpose? What if they're victims of something?”
Braya's eyes fluttered shut as his hands dove through the silky strands of her hair. “They must have done something to deserve it, then,” she concluded, her shuddering tone betraying the feeling his hands were sending through her.
“How can they deserve it more than females could?” Asher asked, his head so much closer to hers than it had been a moment ago. The hands roving through her hair had taken pause at the back of her neck, and the sensation of his fingers against that sensitive patch of skin was all-consuming and pleasant. A little shudder ran through her and she felt the need to be closer to him.
She'd lost the strand of their conversation, and frowned slightly. What had he just said? Did it even matter? “I don't know,” she murmured. Her hands were moving of their own accord. They were wrapping around his tie, tugging him ever closer.
Something broke inside her, like a dam spilling over in debris and raging water, and Braya felt as if the blue of Asher's gaze was seeping through her like paint. It stained her skin and washed through her veins. Other colors emerged from somewhere else, and they were swirling together, soaking into each other like watercolors. Emotions, stronger and more oppressing than her own, lay at the fringe of her consciousness, beguiling. Braya was flustered, unsure, but her hands kept moving. Asher's chest was pressed against hers, and she was keenly aware of the heat their mingled breath created.
Her entire body was flushed, and an almost crushing desire prickled through her without notice. The ache in her skin for Asher's touch intensified, and she forced his hands to slide down her body. Something bloomed in the back of her head, something foreign—though completely delectable—and Braya felt a command rise to her head unthinkingly.
“Kiss me,” she uttered, straining. The lusty tone of her voice confused her, but her hands were wrapping around Asher's neck as his cupped her face. She could feel him hovering over her, their breaths mixing together as their mouths parted for each other, the faintest of touches as their lips grazed each others...
But Asher hesitated. Braya's eyes flashed open and she saw something shift in those glacial eyes. He was surprised, horrified. He jumped away from her, breathing hard.
Braya scowled as a whoosh of cool air followed their separation. Her head was clearing, and suddenly she realized the same thing Asher had.
“It was you!” She screeched. “Those were your emotions! You were feeding them into me! That command...you meant to say that, but instead I did because you linked our emotions!”
He was holding his head in his hands—whether in embarrassment or regret, she did not know. “I'm sorry. I didn't do that on purpose—I didn't know anything like that could happen. Our emotions just kind of soaked together and...”
“You're sick! I can't believe you'd abuse that stupid slave link like that! I want them gone! Remove them!” She was shaking. Was that what it felt like to like someone? That raw, that intense? So much as to lose control?
Asher's voice was as soft and delicate as snow, “I'm sorry, I can't do that.”
“Then I'll force Ness to do it myself!” She couldn't stop shaking. What if Asher hadn't stopped, hadn't realized? How far would they have gone on that roof as to satisfy that ache for each other? How humiliating, to all extents.
Humiliating, but oh so sweet. If she were indeed one of the rotten apples who had fallen from its branch, she imagined she’d just nudged herself off the small incline her tree had been resting on. She’d managed to fall further than she ever thought possible. Hera-bird might be pleased to know of it.
~Chapter 14: Shadow Guard~
It was Wednesday afternoon, and Braya had yet the chance to speak to Ness about the master-slave link problem. She had little hope that he would do anything about it since they still had many more places to de-haze. Ness might even congratulate Asher for tricking her and nearly taking advantage of her—Braya ignored the fact that if Asher wanted to force her into an intimate situation with him, all he had to do was order it—but not doing anything about it was worse than fighting for a loss cause, she resolved.
Lunch had passed a few hours ago and Braya had just finished the last of her exams, her motherhood test. If any of them were a wake-up call, that class was enough to make her realize exactly what she was headed for. There was only five days until the wedding! Five days! Children were expected very soon afterward, she thought with a grimace. No—she would not submit to that. She would run away if she had to.
Braya was pacing outside the library on the fourth floor, tugging on the ends of her hair nervously. She had to meet with Latham so they could pick out a few details of their wedding and decide which manor to live in, Rubytide or Opal, once they were married. There were more important things to consider, and she was stuck there picking out flower arrangements and wallpapers!
Latham arrived a few moments later and Braya forced herself to be calm. He greeted her with a cheerful smile and led her into the library. Small tables were set up with brochures, booklets, and other presentations meant for them to browse through.
Latham directed her toward the first table where they picked Braya's wedding dress. At the next they picked his tux. They continued to hop from table to table, picking out wedding music, making invitations—she wondered if her mother would come, and she knew Bellamine wouldn't be allowed, so she decided to invite only Aspen—choosing their future home, and so many other insignificant decisions that Braya had gone numb to it.
When they were done and they were back out in the hall, Braya let out a small sigh of relief. Latham seemed to sense her unease, and asked her what was troubling her.
“Oh, nothing,” she attempted to lie. “I'm just thinking of the wedding, is all.”
His smile was immediate, and Braya found herself envying him. What would it be like to have such a beautiful smile at the ready like that? To be able to use it in any circumstance and call it genuine—what could that feel like?
Braya's thoughts l
oped off into another direction. She wondered what Latham could actually feel. Sure, dangerous extremes were off limits for men like lust, violence, anger, jealousy, but what did that leave them with? Did it do anything to their intelligence, to their cunning? It seemed so. Braya had never gave it thought—and would not have been contemplating it in the first place if it hadn't been for Asher—but now that she did offer the idea some conception, Braya couldn't stop obsessing over it. It became so much that she had to ask what was going on in his mind, if not just to suffuse the worry that Latham was looking at her with.
“Latham,” Braya said, trying to sound sweet, though feeling like she failed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“What is it...I mean...what can you feel?” She finished lamely.
“I'm absolutely pleased that you'll be my wife. You're gorgeous and—”
“No,” Braya interrupted gently, “Not what you feel right now. More like...in general. What kind of things can you feel? Happiness? Loyalty? Sadness?”
He nodded, affectionately touching the ribbons in her hair that matched her brown, pin-striped dress. “Yes, I know those emotions. Cheerfulness, embarrassment, regret.”
“But not anger, or revenge? Not jealousy?” She asked hopefully. Braya could still remember the moment on the yacht when he'd given her the blue rose and Troy had attempted to take it and re-gift it to her. Had that been jealousy, or had she been interpreting it wrong?
Latham looked bewildered at her question, and straightened his glasses as he leaned down to take her appearance in. His magenta eyes were smooth, and the spark of intelligence buried in their depths reminded her of the same mark she'd witnessed in her brother's gaze. “Why are you asking me these things, sweet Braya? Are you worried about something? If there is a matter bothering you, lay it out on me. I am to be your loyal husband, and I need to know all of your problems in order to be of assistance.”
Braya deflated. She might be posing the questions wrong, but she admitted to herself that even if she were a master word-smith, she could not get him to answer her question the way she wished. She decided it was no use. “Oh, please don't worry. It was just a...passing curiosity, nothing more.”
