by Amy Hopkins
It doesn’t, however, explain Artemis, Julianne mused. Then again, perhaps it did. Beth was as different as he was, and as likely to be treated as such. Combined with her trusting innocence and complete openness, Julianne could see what might draw him to her.
Julianne could have delved further into Beth’s mind to see more of their relationship, but politeness held her back. She would speak to Artemis directly.
“Here it is!” Beth threw a door open to reveal a room so full of pink frills it looked fit to burst. Knitted toys covered the bed and taffeta ribbons hung from the windows, the door knobs, the dresser, and every possible corner or ledge.
“It’s… beautiful,” Julianne said, summoning a brave smile. I’m going to have to meditate my ass off to get to sleep in here, she thought.
“I’m so glad you like it! Is pink your favorite color, too?” Beth asked.
“I prefer white, myself,” Julianne said, glad to see a few hints of it through the sea of warm color. “But the two pair nicely together, don’t you think?”
“Oh, and Artemis told me that I’d never like you if we met!” Beth scolded.
“I believe I also said you never would,” Artemis grumped, coming up behind them. “And I stand by what I said. Give it a week, and you’ll be sick of her, too.” He narrowed his eyes at Julianne as if daring her to disagree.
“Well, I’m known to be a little stuffy,” Julianne admitted. “But I’m trying to be friendlier, thank you, Artemis.”
It was true. At the Temple, the weight of responsibility had always weighed on Julianne, but after spending the last months in a strange village with few ties to her normal life, Julianne had realized that her position had turned her into someone who struggled to let her guard down, to relax among friends.
“Yes, well, you could always practice on me, instead of your soldier,” he snapped.
Beth turned on him. “Artemis, you apologize right now! It’s no wonder people are rude to you when you speak to them like that!”
Julianne was about to protest, but Artemis flushed deep red and nodded. “I’m sorry, Master Julianne,” he mumbled. “Now, can we go outside before I piss anyone else off?”
Beth shook her head at his language, but walked back down the corridor. “You can have your old room, Art. I’ve kept it clean and tidy, just how you like it.”
Artemis smiled at her. “Such a sweet girl you are, Beth, and to a cranky old coot like me, too.”
She stopped, and he almost ran into her. Beth whirled around, fury in her eyes. “And don’t you speak about yourself like that, either, Art. I won’t hear it, not in this house! Not after all you did for us!”
“Now, now. Settle yourself, my dear. I can’t go saying nice things, or people might believe it. I’ll ruin my reputation!” Artemis shuffled around so his back was to Julianne. He clearly didn’t want her input on the subject.
“Men! You’re all so confusing.” Beth threw up her hands and stomped back downstairs, disappearing into the kitchen after pointing Julianne to a small sitting room. “You can rest in there. I’ll bring some tea, and we can talk like ladies.”
Then, she wagged a finger at Artemis. “And you can go and walk the grounds. I know you like to do that at least once a day.”
“I do, at that.” Artemis snatched up his hat, which he had left on a table in the hall. “I’ll be back for dinner.”
Julianne settled down in an oversized chair, admiring the pretty tapestries and a sideboard lined with exquisitely dressed porcelain dolls. Marcus poked his head in the door.
“I’ve got our things, where do you want them?” he asked.
“Can you leave my papers here?” Julianne asked, remembering she needed to sort them out. “The rest can go in the room at the very top of the stairs. The pink one,” she added, eyes wide with meaning.
“The pink one,” Marcus muttered as he dropped a pack by her feet. “No problem.”
Julianne hoisted the pack onto her lap once he had gone, and began to stack papers onto a small, carved side table.
A young woman walked in, carefully balancing a tray of tea and biscuits. “Ma’am,” she said, curtsying deeply. Her eyes darted to the table, and Julianne realized there was nowhere to put the tray.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, quickly pulling the stack of paper onto her lap.
“Oh, it’s no bother!” the woman said. She hesitated, waiting until the table was clear before sliding the tray onto it. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No,” Julianne said. “But may I ask your name?”
“My name is Millie, ma’am.” Another curtsy, this time deeper.
Before the maid could turn to go, Julianne asked if she had worked for the siblings for very long.
“Work? Oh, ma’am, I don’t work here. I live here. I’m just practicing my manners, see, so I can go and earn me’self a working position in a ladies’ house, one day.” She paused, eyes darting to the door. “A house that pays, if you know what I mean.”
Julianne frowned. “Beth and Nathan don’t pay you?”
Millie started, then stammered. “Oh! No, I didn’t mean that! No, ma’am. They…” She looked right and left. “Ma’am, you seemed upset at the idea of me not getting my dues. You’re… against slave-keeping?”
She bit her lip, teeth sinking deep enough that Julianne could already see the marks it was leaving.
“No man, woman, or child will be subjected to it in my presence,” Julianne said, her voice strong. “I’ve fought against it before, and I will again.”
Millie slumped in relief, staggering over to a chair and collapsing into it. “Thank you, ma’am. You see, we’re not to talk about it with strangers—you know, in case they want to take us back.”
Julianne’s mind scrambled to put the pieces of Millie’s disjointed story together. “So, you were a slave? But you’re not anymore?”
Millie nodded. “Nathan came and slipped me out on the quiet. My master was… oh, ma’am, I didn’t mind the work, but the beatings!” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “And I guess my leaving was the catalyst, because a little while after that, we got news of Arcadia and the goings on, and all sudden-like, four more of the girls and two boys I worked with were at our door!”
“They ran?” Julianne asked, drawn in by the girl’s story.
“They killed him,” Millie whispered. Color drained from her face. “Oh, ma’am, please don’t tell!”
Julianne smiled and shook her head. “If he kept slaves and beat them, he’ll get no sympathy from me,” Julianne reassured her. “Truth be told, I was part of those ‘goings on’ at Arcadia. I fought with the rebels who overthrew the nobility.”
Millie jumped to her feet and ran over, kneeling at Julianne’s knee. “Truly? Oh, ma’am, you’re a hero, truly you are!”
Julianne laughed. “No, the real heroes are still there, as far as I know. I helped a little, as did Marcus, but the real heroes are the people just like you, people who were treated worse than dirt and still found the strength to rise up and fight back.”
A tear snuck down Millie’s face. “Oh, ma’am. Ma’am, you don’t know what a difference this news makes! I can go home, to my family in Arcadia!”
Sudden fear struck Julianne like ice. “Millie… were your family from the boulevard?”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, ma’am. They sent me to work for the crooked lord, but he took me as a slave instead. Never sent a single coin back to them, I bet.”
It was Julianne’s turn to sink her teeth into her lip. “Millie, I don’t know your family, but I must tell you… not everyone survived.”
Millie’s breath caught in a gasp. Then, she nodded. “If they’re dead, they died for a cause, ma’am, and I’ll honor them any way I can.”
Julianne sighed in relief. Millie was strong and would survive no matter what, she realized. Still, a helping hand wouldn’t hurt.
“If you plan to go back, I can give you a letter of recommendation. Here, pass me that writing table,
and I’ll do it right now.” Julianne dug in her pack and pulled out a fine pen, then rifled through the stack on her lap to find something to write on.
“To whom it may concern,” Julianne spoke aloud as she wrote. “It is my pleasure to recommend to you, Millie of—wait, does this estate have a name?” Julianne lifted the pen, careful not to smudge what she had written so far.
“Yes, ma’am. The Aeternitatem Estate.”
“Why would it be anything else?” Julianne muttered, as she wrote it down. “Her fine manners, strong spirit, and unflinching generosity will be a boon to any employer. Signed faithfully, Julianne, Master of the Mystic Temple.”
Tears now streamed down Millie’s face, and she wiped it with a sleeve, carefully taking Julianne’s letter between pinched fingers. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said, her voice strong despite her watering eyes.
“It’s nothing, really,” Julianne said. “Arcadia could do well with more people like you. I have a friend there, Amelia. There were some issues there, but I’m hoping they have been resolved. Wait just a bit before returning if you can, okay? Talk to her. She helped fight Adrien, and she now runs the city. She will make sure you find housing and work.”
Millie scurried away just as Beth entered, holding a cup of her own tea, and a woven bag brimming with wool and needles.
“Oh, no, did Millie upset you?” Beth asked, eyes wide.
Julianne smiled. “Quite the opposite. I’m so sorry if I’ve upset things here, but I gave her a letter of recommendation.” Julianne watched Beth as she explained. “She said she wanted to go back to Arcadia.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Beth gushed, and Julianne relaxed. “We do take in as many as we can, but our own income is quite pitiful. We simply can’t afford to give the poor souls what they need to make a fresh start.”
“Millie said Nathan saved her from a cruel master,” Julianne queried. “What kind of estate are you running here?”
Beth gave a conspiratorial smile. “It’s a railroad,” she whispered.
Julianne frowned, confused. “A what?”
“A railroad, a secret one. Nathan read it in a book, once—we save the slaves and the ones who are trapped under cruel masters. We train them up, give them a home and good food, and then they leave when they’re ready.”
Beth pulled out a thin, hooked needle and a bit of thread attached to a square of knitted cloth. She thrust the needle through, looped the thread around and pulled it back out.
“You’re doing a wonderful thing,” Julianne said quietly. “I think Nathan was wrong when he said you wouldn't live up to your namesakes. Seems like you already have.”
Beth continued working as a tiny smile tugged at one side of her mouth. “I know. Silly old man can’t see it, but I know.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“We had no choice!” Patrick, one of the captured bandits, spat on the ground beside him, his saliva tinged pink with blood.
His white makeup had smudged onto his shirt, leaving patches of flushed pink skin peeking through the disguise. He sniffed, then rolled his shoulder, pulling on the bindings around his wrists again.
“There’s always a choice, ye selfish bastard.” Garrett resisted the urge to kick the fallen man in the face, opting instead to aim at a clump of dirt, showering it over Patrick.
“We were living on our own just fine!” Patrick growled. “Sure, we picked a few travelers pockets and raided the odd campsite, but we never killed anyone. You want a fight? Go pick one with the remnant that raided our settlement.”
“Remnant?” Garrett barked a caustic laugh. “Ye wouldn’t know a remnant if it bit ye on the ass.”
Patrick growled and lunged against his restraints. “I’ve seen them! And I’ve fought them, too! Lost half our band to the crazed scum.”
“The way ye fight, I’m surprised ye didn’t lose more,” Bette said easily. She swaggered over. “And yer costumes? I’ve seen wee children dress more convincingly at the festivals.”
It was Patrick’s turn to laugh. “Didn’t stop anyone we approached from pissing their pants and running for the hills. Even seasoned fighters!” His eyes narrowed. “You might say, we saved lives with these costumes. They ran, we ate. I’m not apologizing for that.”
This time Garrett did kick him, a firm, booted toe in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but Patrick buckled over, gasping for breath anyway.
“That’s enough, Garrett,” Bette warned. “Ye know the lord wouldn’t approve of ye roughing up the prisoners. At least, not until we get ‘em back ta Tahn.”
Patrick paled. “You’re taking us captive?”
Bette laughed. “What did ye think? That we’d set ye on yer merry way, off ta loot and plunder our trading routes?”
Patrick slumped back, grumbling something under his breath.
“Well, I did suggest we leave ye behind,” Garrett said. Patrick looked up, warily. “Aye, I did! Dead men can’t cause no trouble on the roads, and it’d be a might bit easier than luggin’ yer heavy asses back with us.”
Patrick closed his eyes and muttered a prayer as Bette turned her back. “I’ll go see if old George is done with our Francis yet.”
She stalked over to the carriage and poked her head in, just as Francis stepped out the other side onto wobbly legs.
“Och, what did ye say to the lad?” she asked George.
“Oh, I just impressed on him the importance of what I have bestowed,” George said. “But you should know—he’s your lord, now. He’s sworn fealty to me, but you will lead beneath him. And, perhaps call him something other than ‘lad’, eh?” He raised a knowing eyebrow, and Bette blushed.
“Apologies, my lord. I’ll see young—er, Lord Francis is shown all the respect he deserves. Even if I have to break a few knees ta do it,” she added, grinning.
“Now, I don’t think that’s necessary,” George said, though he smiled, too. “The boy has a knack for negotiation, I see—he insisted that remuneration for the Captain and First Lieutenant of Tahn are both paid out of Muir’s coffers, and at a higher rate than you’re getting.”
“That’s not necessary, my lord,” Bette protested.
“It is if I want him to lead his people.” George darted a glance out his window. “And to be fair, I’d be dead if you hadn’t been here. It might be prudent to—”
He was interrupted by the sound of a horn, high and clear in the crisp afternoon air.
“Attack! Remnant are attacking!” Came the first cry, and right on its heels, “Bandits! More bandits!”
“Ach, ye sly bastard,” Bette hissed. “Francis! Back in the carriage, stay with George.”
She raced over to Garrett, and this time, it was her boot that met Patrick’s ribs. “Ye sneaky shit, who are they?”
Patrick’s eyes were wide, his face white. “Not mine,” he gasped. “Please—please, you can’t fight them! They’re insane!”
“Bullshit,” Garrett leaned down into Patrick’s face. “They’re yer friends, back to save yer ass!”
Patrick shook his head, a swift, jerking motion. “No. You caught all of us. They’re…” he swallowed. “They’re either impersonators, or…”
Screams from the back of the party sent Garrett and Bette running. They leapt over bags and carts strewn in their way, bolting for the sound of terror. When they found it, they screeched to a halt.
A ragged figure stabbed down with a cackle and lifted his eyes to Bette.
Red eyes.
The band of seven remnant—real remnant—had taken out four soldiers already. One of the beasts was down, bucking in agony and clutching his face.
“Oh, shit,” Garrett whispered.
“Aye,” Bette agreed. “Shit.”
As one, they launched into a run. Garrett wielded an axe, short-handled and perfectly balanced, sharp blade glittering in the afternoon sun. Bette swung her sword in lazy loops as she picked up speed.
They crashed into the fray, shouldering George’s troops aside as the
y pushed through to the enemy.
Garrett’s axe bit into a dirt-crusted thigh. Bette’s sword slammed into a soft, filth-streaked belly.
“For George!” They hollered as the fighting crashed in around them.
Weapons flew, and blood splashed, then gushed. Bette was pummeled by three remnant, all weighing down on top of her. She stumbled and fell, squashed flat by the weight.
With a mighty heave, she lifted her body, pushing up to rest on her hands and knees. Then, with a roar, she shoved herself back. The remnant tumbled off, one taking a hunk of her hair with it.
Pain stung her scalp and stoked her fury. She whirled, eyes landing on the angry beast still holding a long ribbon of hair, bloody patch of scalp attached. It looked at her and grinned.
“We kill your pack leader, ugly bitch, and make you watch,” it cackled. “DIE!”
“Ye whimpering, pig-fuckin’, slug-eatin’, rat testicle! I am the fucking pack leader!” She screamed, before running at him, sword tucked neatly at her side.
She thrust it forward at the last minute, stabbing the remnant at the base of the throat. It jerked, spasmed, and died in a matter of moments.
Bette spun to face another remnant, poised to stab a rusted spear through a man on the ground. She saw who it was and groaned.
“And what the fuck’re ye doin’—” she grunted at the remnant, blade cutting into his side with a solid whump, “—tryin’ ta hurt me prisoner?”
She pulled it free and fended off its return attack with a well-placed boot that sent the remnant tumbling onto its back. Bette jumped, landing one foot on its windpipe, the other on its chest as she parried a thrust from another attacker.
She fought, her balance precarious on the fleshy, struggling platform. The remnant stabbed at her and hit, stinging heat spreading through her shoulder.
She whipped her sword around and sliced off her target’s head, then tripped, landing face down in the dirt. Rough hands yanked her back up. She whirled to come face to face with Patrick. A frantic look around showed no further fighting, and she sucked in a steadying breath.
