“You will watch your tongue and contain your rage,” Jonathan shot back in Catalian. “Monsters they may have been, but she beside me called him father.”
“Yes? And he is her brother!” Timothy replied in Etsian and pointed to Charles. “Where is her empathy for him? She is as responsive as a block of wood!”
Jonathan had the knife out and whizzing through the air before Timothy could even see it coming. It caught him, as it was meant to, in the breezy side of his shirt, and the wide hilt pulled him back. The throw was lucky and caught between the stones, effectively pinning Timothy in place.
“You are out of line,” Jonathan said in tight, angry Etsian. “You will keep your Catalian color to yourself, or the next knife will stop your tongue.”
No one in the room moved or even breathed except Timothy, whose chest was heaving with rage as he glared at Jonathan. But he did not reach for a knife of his own.
Jonathan took the opening that gave him and said, still sternly but with a gentler edge, “The time for emotions will come later. This is a shock to everyone here, but facts will be more helpful at this time.”
It was an old, old argument between them, passion versus a cool head, and they had played this drama out many times before, with many more knives and fists thrown before they had come to an agreement, and many, many times, Jonathan had lost. But not this time. Timothy deflated slowly, then nodded and eased his shoulders as he reached down to free himself from the knife.
“My apologies, madam,” he said to Madeline with sincerity. He crossed to hand the knife back to Jonathan, then stopped at Madeline, lightly touching her shoulder where she sat. “I dishonored you, and I am sorry.”
She nodded haltingly. Jonathan knew she was barely holding herself together, but he also knew she would never let anyone see her affected when she perceived so many people needed her to maintain control.
“Is there anything else we need to know?” Jonathan asked.
“Possibly,” she said quietly, not looking up from the floor. “But this is all that I have for now.”
“Then we are finished gathering intelligence.” Jonathan turned from her to address the others. “Timothy, take Emily to gather what you think you need from these supplies you say you brought. Stephen, remain here with Charles until they return. Emily, you will be in charge of supplies and will set up as you see fit in the study.” He stepped closer to Madeline and touched her very lightly on the shoulder. “May I offer you the master bedroom for some privacy for your meditation?”
He had worked the phrasing very carefully in his head, and to his relief he had chosen the right one, because not only did she nod in agreement, but her shoulders eased slightly as well. Daring to push his luck, he extended a hand to help her rise; he let himself crow silently when she accepted it and used his leverage to climb to her feet.
In afterthought, he glanced at Charles to be certain he had not been awake for any of this. He thought of his brother—cousin—the Charles he knew listening to Madeline’s dispassionate telling, and he went cold, kicking himself for not checking sooner. But there was no question that Charles was still deeply unconscious. Jonathan saw Madeline heading out the door, and he knew he needed to stay close to her, but he dared a moment to bend down and lay the broad flat of his hand against Charles’s back.
“May the Goddess bring you peace and comfort in your dreams, little brother,” he whispered, then bent and gently kissed the top of his head before he rose to follow Madeline.
But before he could follow her out the door, Timothy caught him by the elbow. “I am sorry,” he whispered in Catalian. He caught Jonathan’s hand and drew the back of it to his mouth. “I did not think, and I was cruel to her. I confess my shame.”
Jonathan caught Timothy’s hand and returned the gesture to show he accepted, but he kept his eyes on Madeline. “I must catch her,” he whispered back.
Timothy nodded, gave the kiss once more, and sent him forward. “Go. I will apologize to her fully at a more appropriate time.”
Jonathan squeezed his hand in thanks and hurried after Madeline down the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
quierae
the lovers
All lovers are sacred to the Goddess.
Jonathan came to the door of his bedroom just as she did, and he managed to slide past her as she entered. By the time she realized he had followed her, he had already managed to step around her on the other side, swing the door shut, and quietly turn the key in the lock.
She watched him withdraw the key, her eyes narrowing. “You offered me privacy.”
He deposited the key in his front trouser pocket, being certain to slide it all the way to the bottom. “I lied.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
Jonathan knew a macabre urge to laugh. Take away ten years, and you will see us just the same. She would stare at him until he began to doubt himself, to wonder whether or not his impulse had been wise. She would slide the knife in subtly, preying on his confidence, and failing that, she would attempt to guilt him, and if all else failed, she would enrage him. Anything and everything to drive him away. She had never beat him with the foils, but she had won these bouts every time.
How much skill, man, have you acquired in ten years?
She tightened her arms over her middle and gave him a cold, flat smile. “And do you feel sufficiently superior, now that you have bullied me into what you wanted?”
“No,” he said. It was a soft shot. Either she was tired or she was lulling him into false confidence. Feint.
“Ah.” Acid tones now. “Then your intent must be to comfort me, your poor lamb.”
Lunge. He said nothing and kept himself as neutral as possible, not even giving in to the urge to slide his hands into his pockets. He held still, and he kept his face unreadable. Miss.
“Or perhaps this is your attempt at amends?” She uncrossed her arms and held out her hands. “For the pain you caused ten years ago but did not stay to see?”
Lunge.
Jonathan hid the tightness building in his jaw with a nod. “Yes. After all, I am an arrogant bastard who thinks only of himself.” He delivered it evenly, so flatly it sounded not just sincere but almost contrite. She blinked and tightened her arms in front of herself again.
Block. Counterpoint.
She stepped away from him, heading toward the window. He followed but kept a respectable distance. Dusk was settling in fast, and the gardens were full of mist, but it was the gentle, natural sort, not the black fog from the lake. She braced her hands on the sill and looked below, appearing serene. He wasn’t fooled, and he stood in the shadows near the bed and waited for the next attack.
It came quickly enough. “If this performance is because of what happened the night you arrived,” she said, “you are operating under an unfortunate misunderstanding. I did nothing with you beyond what was required to regain my balance.”
It was a bald-faced lie, and yet he had to count it as a point because it made him want to spit at the back of her head. “It isn’t a problem,” he quipped, sharper than he’d have liked. “I don’t mind being used by you.”
She went very stiff. He allowed himself a smile. Return point. He was ahead.
He wiped his smile clean as she turned around; he couldn’t see her face, but her rage was evident enough. “I have no need of a nursemaid, and you have no right to declare yourself my guardian.”
“You called to me from the lake,” he said, losing some ground as his voice became tight. “You called my name, and I heard it from over a mile away, and I came to you.”
“I was weak,” she shot back.
“Is that what the witches taught you, Madeline? That love is a weakness?”
Lunge. Her entire body went rigid as a plank of oak. “I do not love you,” she hissed.
Stab, gash. “So you take first blood, as always,” he said, then added even more softly, “But I wonder, Madeline, if you dare to say it to my face.�
�
“I just did,” she said, but he could sense the tremor in her.
“Once more, then. Come here before me and say it once more, Madeline, and I swear on the seal of my House that I will leave you to the privacy you say you crave.”
Feint.
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward him. He made himself wait until she was nearly upon him, and then, at the last second, he stepped out of the shadows, meeting her before her final step. The setting sun fell upon his face, but he didn’t let himself squint. He kept his expression as calm and neutral as he could, and he looked directly into her eyes, waiting.
She faltered, her gaze falling down to his chest and then the floor.
“To my face, Madeline,” he said.
But she couldn’t look at him now. She had lost her ground, and her eyes wouldn’t make it past his neck. They were turning glassy, and she swallowed far too frequently.
And Jonathan realized he did not have the stomach to drive home for the kill. “I do not mock you, Madeline,” he said, “nor am I trying to trick you or shame you into accepting my comfort. I love you, and I will not let you suffer alone. If you truly do not love me, if I have battered us beyond repair and my chance for forgiveness has passed, I will accept this. But you will look me in the eye when you tell me this, and you will hand me the words yourself.”
She shut her eyes tight and bowed her head; the sobs were starting, but they were silent and short, little bubbles of pain forced out of her against her will.
He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder and leaned into her, as patient and placid as the distant Catalian Sea. “You were a pillar of strength in the tower, Madeline, and that was properly done. But I know, likely better than anyone else alive, how much you loved your father and how deeply you cherish his memory.” Her shoulders shuddered, then went tight again. “It is admirable that your training in the Craft has given you the composure and fortitude to weather such a blow still standing. But no matter what else you are, you are still Madeline Elliott. And she needs to grieve her father and the brother she did not know she needed to save.” The sobs were coming faster now, but she remained stiff. He slid his hand to the top of her arm and placed a featherlight kiss against her temple. “I was too weak to stay with you before, Madeline,” he whispered, “but I am not weak now. Come down from your lonely bower and let me lend you my strength.”
She shuddered, shook, and then she sobbed, a sharp slap of sound that tore from her throat. He held his breath, then reached down and carefully took her hand, guiding it up the side of his chest. Then she lifted the other one herself and fell into his arms.
He drew her in gently but tightly, and when her knees began to fail her, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. She sobbed like a babe, like a betrayed lover, like a lonely child; she let herself fall deeper into the sorrow, burying her face hard against his chest to drown out her wails, which were so piercing and tight that they were nearly screams.
Jonathan let go with one hand long enough to reach for the coverlet, then shifted them farther back against the head of the bed as he tossed the blanket over her and tucked her in tight against him. “Let it out, Madeline, all of it,” he whispered. “All ten years’ worth, if need be. You are safe here, always.” He shut his eyes and pressed a lingering kiss against the top of her head. “Not by my will shall I ever leave you again.”
She slid her hands around his body and pulled herself in tighter. As her sobs began again, Jonathan said nothing more, only rocked her gently and rested his cheek against her hair, his own tears falling silently down his face.
* * *
Timothy caught up with Emily on the stairs. She was moving slowly, lingering against the stones, skimming her hand across them sadly as she descended. He came up beside her, remembered his earlier outburst against her family, and cursed himself silently.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, he nodded down the spiral stairs to the landing before the tower bedroom. “I want you to come with me, because there are some things I would like to show you.” Timothy put his hand beneath her elbow and nodded to the landing again, to the small brass plate near the floor. “We’ll need to be swift; if any of them notice the door to the outside is still locked from the inside and we are missing, they will worry. And I do not want anyone to know where it is that we have gone.”
Emily nodded, but she was clearly apprehensive. “Why don’t you want anyone to know about the Other Side?”
“Because the ghosts were firm in their insistence that anyone with House blood could not enter.”
“Stephen isn’t of a House,” she pointed out.
Timothy, still irritated with that pup, only nodded and bent to the plate. He pushed it, stood, then took Emily’s hand and passed with her through the wall.
They appeared on a set of stairs identical to the one they had left, but here the stairs were brighter, more polished. The tower was quiet, and they saw and heard no one until they came to the hall. The ghosts waved cheerfully at them as they passed, and Timothy nodded greetings in return as he led Emily through the rich, fragrant halls.
“It’s so beautiful,” Emily whispered, craning her neck to take it all in. “Like something out of a story. I never knew any place could be so wondrous.”
“It reminds me of the Cariff’s palace,” Timothy said quietly. “I half expect a train of female concubines to appear giggling and whispering every time I turn a corner.”
“Do you miss it?” she asked him. “Your life in Catal, before?”
“Every day, Miss Emily,” he replied. “Every day.”
They walked silently for a while, heading down a set of stairs to the center courtyard. When they came inside, however, Emily gasped and laughed in delight.
“Timothy! It’s—” She laughed again and reached up to touch a fat, lush peach. “I don’t know what they are, but the smell alone is making me ache!”
“Fruit,” he told her. “Peaches, dates, oranges, apples, and countless others. I suspect there are more gardens and places such as these off the kitchens.”
“The kitchens take my breath away even in ruins,” she confessed. She couldn’t seem to stop stroking the peach.
“On this side, I suspect they are gleaming and fully stocked.” He reached up and helped her withdraw the fruit, then smiled as he lifted it to her mouth. “Here. It’s very sweet, with a tiny bit of tart. I think you will like it.”
Emily bit hesitantly, then seemed to melt on the spot. Timothy grinned and pressed the rest of the fruit into her hand. “Come. Let’s find the kitchen.”
It was as he had predicted: overflowing with everything and anything anyone could ever desire to eat. The ash-caked hearth from the ruined side was here scrubbed until the bricks gleamed a rich red, and the rotted table in the center of the room was instead a great oaken monster that could hold an entire roast pig if pressed to do so. They ventured into the pantry, and Emily squealed her delight as they found stores beyond imaginings: spices, dried pork and beef, pickled eggs, salted ham, vats of bacon and salt pork and barrels of flour so fine they settled like dust in their bins.
“How is this possible?” she whispered.
A tall ghost and several other smaller ones had followed them inside the storeroom. “We brought with us the memory of these foods. We keep them to keep the memory.”
“Can they be consumed on the other—on our side?” Timothy asked.
The ghost nodded and extended its hand to the hoard. “Please take what you wish. It will be replenished as soon as it is taken.”
Emily’s cheeks flushed with pleasure as she turned around, clearly lost as to what to seize first.
“Remember that we must do our cooking over the hearth,” he warned.
She waved his thought away. “Mr. Fielding, you have your areas of strength, but this is mine.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a pad of paper and a stub of pencil. “Please fetch me a very large basket.”
In the end they made seven tri
ps up to the tower. Emily stored some of it in the study, but a great deal of it she kept on the Other Side’s landing just before the doorway between, using it as a storehouse. Timothy had seized a few items of his own, some practical, such as several basins and two more chamber pots and a large barrel full of water, which he delivered to the study himself. But he also had a basket slung over his arm, and he took great care in filling it with food, candles, wine, herbs, oils, and great lengths of cloth whose material he had not seen the equal of since he left the Continent. He also brought up a great clutch of pillows and featherlight blankets; a few of these he handed to Emily for a bed in the study. The rest he carried back to the top, resting his newly acquired belongings outside the tower door.
“I would like to ask, Miss Emily,” Timothy began as they set up the last of the items in the study, “what your feelings are at this moment toward Stephen.” She blushed, and to relieve her, he added, “Chiefly I am trying to discover if you will feel comfortable spending the night with him in here. Because I have no intent of letting him remain in the turret with me. If his presence will make you uncomfortable, I will make him a bed at the bottom of the stairs and inform him he is on guard duty.”
She blushed again, but she also shook her head. “I don’t wish him to do that. He may stay with me.” Her expression became rueful, and she nodded to the spread of food beside the now roaring hearth. “If nothing else, he can help me cook.”
Timothy caught the longing on her face as well and indulged in a brief war between staying out of her business and digging his nose firmly into it. Then he remembered the soft, giving sweetness he had felt in their kiss, and the war was over.
“There are a few things the androghenie have which you might find useful, should you decide you wish to persuade him into any other activities.” He paused to let her be embarrassed, then went on. “Sex is a very healing act, Emily. I think we all could use some healing this night.”
She was still flushed, but she looked directly at him. “Is that your intent, then, in the turret? Is that—Is he…?”
The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Page 35
