Five
“Come on, Brave. It’s been two full days, and everyone knows it’s not in your nature to mope for so long.”
Sara pulls on the pile of blankets that cover my bed. “At least get some of these off. I’m not so sure you’re even breathing under there anymore.”
Giving up, I throw the covers to my waist and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet finding instant relief at the touch of the cool, stone floor. Though I would never admit it to Sara, it’s probably true that I was about to suffocate under there. Too bad the apparent leader of The Lost can’t say the same. There is no about in his situation.
I let out a puff of air, sending strings of hair into a silent tornado around my head. So many thoughts and unpleasant ones at that. Perhaps I should just go back to bed.
“Oh, no you don’t!” she says, grabbing my side as I threaten to fall back into the pillows. “It’s an important day, you know.”
What she doesn’t say is that every day since I’ve been back has been important. Crisp says that we’re lucky my friend was there to lead the trail elsewhere, or we’d be engaging in an all-out war right now with The Lost. What he did to this trail of sorts, I haven’t a clue, but I still can’t find the urge to be thankful for it. I had the situation under control, at least somewhat. Now all I’ve succeeded in doing is adding a new plot twist to the nightmare I was already living. Crisp swears I have nothing to worry about, but he also wouldn’t look me in the eye when he was swearing it either. I can’t decide if his skittish behavior has more to do with his story or the sight of me after I’ve tangled with my sheets for a day or two. I can imagine that I did and still do look a fright.
Poor Crisp. No wonder he hasn’t come back.
Sara snaps her fingers, and I realize I’ve been staring holes into the treacherous square letter on my nightstand. “Did you say something?” I ask.
Her blue eyes narrow, making her young face look meaner than I’ve seen in years. I frown back. Regardless of how I feel, Sara is my friend. She deserves more than to have to deal with my endless mood swings. I reach for her hand.
“I’m sorry. You’re right; this is an important day.” I strain to catch her eye. “And why is this an important day exactly?”
“See,” she shouts, snatching her hand back from my own. “I knew you weren’t listening! I told Father that he should just let you be.”
Ah, and the truth comes out. I knew Weston would be looking for me. I just didn’t figure it would be so soon. I’m not ready. I never will be.
“He wants me to make the announcement?” I whisper more to myself than to my faithful friend. It’s something I’ve been dreading since the second Papa walked away. We need someone to replace him, at least for the time being, and I’m the one with the lucky privilege to choose. The scariest part of all is that many in our tight-knit community think the choice should be easy. They think it should be me.
“No, Brave, he doesn’t,” she says, exasperation clinging to her like a dirty cloak. “I said that we have some visitors. Interesting ones, from the looks of it. They come from the north. Orien, to be exact. Father says that they came with the wish to speak with you. It’s a little odd, don’t you think?”
My ears perk up at her words. We never have visitors, and especially not from some place as far and foreign as Orien. If Darcy’s forsaken history lessons aren’t mistaken, Orien is one of the few large territories that is home to a king and queen, a tradition that died for many smaller territories ages ago. Their interest in us is odd to say the very least, I think. “Unless they know what’s happened to Papa.”
She smiles, reaching out to grab the stray ends of my hair and gently rubbing them in between her fingers. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
A new gust hums through my veins, and I stand, moving to open the doors onto my slender balcony. I haven’t felt like this in a while, and I reach up to touch the slight smile that’s already formed on my lips. With a little hesitation, I name it.
Hope.
Sara comes to stand beside me, her hands pressed to her lean hips. When we were little, we used to pretend that we were twins, the two of us. We’re complete opposites really, with my dark, tangled hair and her light, perfect locks. She’s always been the cautious one, taking the steps one at a time, while I would fly down them, hoping to skip two or three at once without breaking my neck. Where I lack grace, Sara has it, and she does a fine job of keeping me in line. Sometimes I wonder why she wasn’t chosen for this life. She shines so much brighter in it.
“When did they arrive?” I ask, letting my morose thoughts evaporate into the cool, morning air.
“Just before sunrise, Father said. It must be important, to knock on our gates so early like that.”
I snort. “So you don’t think that all the territories are aware of Ashen’s preference to sleeping in?”
My words come out harsh, but I don’t mean them that way. I’m perfectly content with Ashen’s slow way of life. According to Papa, it’s what’s kept us so safe over all these years. Who would want to bother with us, he’d say, when we have so little care for the outside world? His words have a hint of truth to them, but not entirely. There’s nothing that the people of Ashen do that doesn’t have a clear purpose. We’re distant for a reason.
“Who knows?” She sighs, leaning her elbows onto the rock ledge and looking out onto the waking city. “Crisp says that Oriens never leave their territory, much less make the journey to visit us. You can’t blame them for inexperience.”
“Oh, Crisp,” I whisper, our encounter from several nights ago still fresh in my memory. “This news must make him happy. At least takes away a bit of the sting, maybe?”
She puckers her lips into a pitiful-looking frown. “You know my brother; there is nothing that can take away the sting of failure, even when it was never really his to begin with.”
Though I know her words are not aimed at me, I still feel the heat of them as they zing past, searching out my papa in his absence. It’s one thing for me to question his judgment, but for some reason, it feels wrong and hurtful when it’s her words that do the same. He is our leader after all, and he has never done anything less than the absolute best for our city. Even though we may not understand now, it doesn’t mean it all won’t make perfect sense later. At least, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself since he left.
“It’s no matter.” She shakes her head before eyeing me sideways with a rueful stare. “Crisp isn’t the one we should be worrying about. You, on the other hand, are in need of some serious fixing up.”
“Aren’t I always in a constant state of fixing up?” I laugh. “That’s what Darcy tells me anyway.”
“Darcy needs her tongue clipped,” she spurts before covering her mouth with her hand. “And don’t you dare tell her I said that!”
I beam back at her embarrassment, but I don’t say anything in return. She knows I’m good for my word, and besides, Darcy and I aren’t exactly in the business of sharing secrets.
We meander back into my room, the light from the new day bouncing off the sparse furnishings scattered about the place. I never have spent much time cooped up in here, and for the first time, the plainness of it all is a little off-putting. Aside from my bed and nightstand, a hard, blue sitting chair lounges beside the balcony doors, and a mirrored vanity lines the wall next to the washroom. A small fireplace takes the morning chill from the air. There is nothing in this room that matters to me. Well, except for my letter.
While Sara makes her way to the vanity, I brush past my nightstand, grabbing Papa’s letter in one quick swoop and pressing it into the folds of my hand. The other square sits alone on the wood, staring back at me as if I’ve just mortally wounded its soul. Before I can think twice, I reach out and snatch it up, crumpling it into my palm.
“Are you coming, or I am going to have to drag you again?” she asks, looking over her shoulder. “We don’t have much time to impress, you know.”
> I stuff the letters into the front pocket of my gown and make my way to her. “And goodness knows I need a lot of time.” I innocently smile.
In response, she pats the small chair in front of the vanity, beckoning me to sit. I cringe inwardly, fighting to keep a look of utter calm across my features. This chair and I are at odds, and we have been since I was big enough to sit in it and see over the top of the vanity’s edge. It’s so uncomfortable, this chair. Or maybe it’s just me who’s uncomfortable.
Carefully, I ease down onto the seat, my eyes quickly averting to my feet, before settling on my favorite flaw in the room, a small chip in the floor that leads to the washroom. Papa once dropped a heavy vase of flowers there. It’s reminded me of him ever since. I hear Sara release a slow breath, but she doesn’t say a word. She never does.
She’s a good friend, my Sara.
With expert hands, she works through the deep, bedridden tangles in my hair, softly cooing at the stubborn knots that hide within as if they were a petulant child she’s trying to talk down from a fit. Although I’m uneasy, and the gentle pulls still threaten to bring moisture to my eyes, I’m thankful it’s Sara and not Darcy fooling with this mess. I’m quite certain Darcy would have me bald.
“The usual?” she asks, making my shoulders jump in the broken silence.
I’m about to respond with a simple yes, but the word quickly dies on my lips. If I’m meeting company from Orien, it’s important that I at least try to look the part. Perhaps my signature braid and bun won’t do.
“Let’s try something new,” I say, tugging at the ends of the limp strands around my face. “Instead of the single braid wrapping across the front and folding into the bun, we’ll do a crown braid, and let the rest fall where it may.”
“You want to wear your hair down?” she asks, obviously certain she’s not hearing me right.
“Well, not all the way down.”
“But a compromise,” she says.
I like the sound of it. “Yes, a compromise.” I don’t dare risk a glance in the mirror, but I know she’s pleased.
“So is this my friend Penelope talking,” she laughs, “or is this my friend Brave?”
“A little of both, I’m afraid. As it turns out, Penelope is the much more levelheaded of the two, and I should probably listen to her more often.”
She places her hands on either side of my head, straightening me up and lifting my chin. Immediately, my eyes flutter closed.
“Don’t talk like that,” she scolds.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like a girl who once ran away to the woods and a part of her never came back.”
“But what if it’s true?” I whisper.
“Then we’ll just have to find her again. It’s what her father would want. It’s what our people would want.”
I don’t say anything at this; I just squeeze my eyes tighter as the familiar tug and pull of the braid begins to fill my scalp. We sit in silence, the two of us, until the last brush combs through my tangled, but now somewhat put together hair. I start to stand, but Sara’s hands come down on my shoulders, holding me in my place.
“Open your eyes,” she beckons. “Just this once.”
I know the pounding of one’s heart is not the typical response to such a simple request, but mine has just run away with me, as if her very words are chasing it down. Mirrors have never been a friend of mine. Not since I was eight and Papa told me I was looking more and more like her with every day that passed. That my soft green eyes lit up when I was excited, just like her. That it didn’t matter what others might say—I should take heart in my dark, unruly strands, as they were most certainly a gift from her. That in many ways, I am my mother, except I’ve never met her, and I’m not.
So when I carefully open my eyes and face the reflection before me, it’s the whispers of my heart that I so frantically try to block out, because there’s nothing worse than gazing into the mirror and seeing the ghost of a mother who was never really there at all.
Luckily, the first thing I see is Sara, a tentative smile on her face, greeting me eagerly from behind my chair. And, then, well, then I see who I think is me. For the first time in years, my hair lays in perfect waves, just past my shoulder blades. The front is braided into a beautiful crown before pulling together and joining the other layers in the back.
This time, the whispers don’t even have a chance to form before I’ve chased them away with the warm smile on my face. Today, I don’t look like her. I don’t look like anyone. I just look like me.
“See!” Sara squeals. “I knew you’d like it!”
“I most certainly do,” I say, pulling at the soft ends over my shoulder. “In fact, you’ve done such a great job that I think you’ll be forced to follow me around for the rest of my life, only tending to my hair. But I must ask—were you purposely doing a smudgy job of it in the past?”
She smacks my shoulder with her free hand, the other still brandishing a brush. “Brave! You know that I always try; it’s just that your hair isn’t in the habit of always being in a trying mood. Would you just be grateful? Besides, I didn’t tell you this before because I didn’t want to make you nervous, but I saw the Oriens, and well, one of them is a real looker.”
“And just when have I ever been nervous because of a man?” I ask incredulously, fidgeting with my hands while the square letter begins to burn within my front pocket, threatening to light my entire being on fire. “Please tell me you do know your dear friend better than that!”
“Oh, I know you alright. Sometimes better than I think you do yourself,” she mumbles, fussing with the stray hairs that I have already seemed to mess up. “You never know, Brave. What if one of these men is here with the interest of being your suitor?”
I roll my eyes at the idea, but I can’t stop the cold chill from covering my limbs. Darcy warned me that if news were ever to get out of my father’s disappearance, there would be many strange and awkward men lined out the door. I was hoping it was just another one of her fantasies.
Determined not to let my fears show, I decide to do what Papa says I’m an expert at—laughing in the face of danger.
“Well, if that’s the case, I better be doubly prepared,” I say, straightening my shoulders and sitting up tall in the chair. I school my features into a mask of complete determination and speak in my most eloquent voice. “Hello, my name is Penelope Brave, daughter of Emory, the head council of Ashen, but you may just call me Brave.”
Eagerly, I look up to find Sara’s reflection, but instead, the draping canopy meets my eyes.
“Sara?” I ask, turning in my seat.
Thankfully, I don’t have to look far. Sara is there all right, but she’s bent over, one hand latched to the chair, the other clasped over her mouth as she falls victim to a very debilitating case of the silent giggles.
“Does this mean I’m ready?” I ask.
Six
The dress feels entirely too tight as I fuss with the smooth folds of blue that wrap around my body in what very well may be a secret choke hold. Never in my life have I felt so board straight, and I’m afraid that if I step too quick, I’ll fall flat on my face, never to recover. When I lied and told Darcy I didn’t have any suitable dresses to wear, I thought she would let me wear one of my nicer pantsuits. Much to my disappointment, she stuffed me into one of Sara’s dresses, which was apparently built for someone who isn’t quite so fond of food. I’ll need to have a talk with Sara when this is all said and done. I’m honestly worried for the girl.
The door creaks open, and a hesitant blond head of hair pops into view. “My eyes are closed. Are you ready yet?”
I sigh, securing my letters in the front of my dress, while dutifully ignoring the bubbles of guilt that rise in my throat. I’ll burn it as soon as I get back. It is with this thought, and less than a hint of elegance, that I cross the room and greet Crisp with a swift scrub of the head.
“That depends. Am I supposed to still be breathing by the
time my feet hit the bottom of the stairs, or is that part negotiable?”
Crisp lets out a laugh that abruptly stops when his eyes finally take me in. “Brave!”
“Oh, come on, Crisp,” I say, pulling him into the hallway. “You could at least pretend like you’ve seen me in a dress before.”
“I have,” he sputters, “when you were four.”
“Eighteen. Four. I can’t tell how there would be much difference between the two.”
“You would say that,” he grumbles, taking me by the arm and walking us toward the precarious staircase that very well may lead to my doom. “You never see yourself in the way that you should.”
I raise my brows and pull his arm, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Oh, I think I see myself just fine, thank you very much.” I smirk.
He lets out a low grunt of approval before looking straight ahead once more. “Just fine, indeed.”
The rest of our short travel meets us with silence as I find myself lost in a whirlwind of thoughts surrounding our Orien visitors. Crisp, well, who knows what lies within the depths of his mind? Aside from wanting to deliver me to the greeting room and promptly excuse himself, I know he is eager to resume the search for Papa. I’m surprised he even sleeps at this point. In fact, I’m surprised I do, too.
Wait. Is Darcy putting something in my tea?
I barely have time to build up a solid accusation before our walk is finished, and I find myself staring at the backs of the two strange men before me, each gazing out the large, glass window into the gardens below. Both men are lean and of taller stature, dark hair against tanned skin, and I’m not sure why, but the sight of them sends a sharp tingling sensation throughout my limbs. I wonder if my body is warning me of something, or perhaps I really am about to pass out from this dress.
I begin to clear my throat and announce my presence to the room, but before a single sound can escape my lips, General Weston suddenly appears from the hinges like some sort of hidden specter. My body hitches, and I yelp in a most unladylike fashion. Vaguely, I register one of the men as he turns, but all I can truly see is Weston as he glides toward me with more regal flourish than I’ve seen in years. Bowing down before me, he quickly rises to take my arm from Crisp’s strong grasp and leads me into the room. We’ve never been a formal bunch. I’m not sure why he’s pretending now, but this sudden act of devotion sets my nerves alive. I’ve never been a good actress. For the first time since I’ve left my room, I stumble.
Look to the Stars (The Orien Trilogy Book 1) Page 4
