The Smoke Thief

by Shana Abe

  Very, very slowly, she began to ease backward.

  Melanie had turned to the others. She was speaking. She was taking off her hat.

  “. . . precisely as I said. We cannot risk further incidents with outsiders. We were fortunate enough to capture the Williams boy before he had gotten too far, but the next time may be the time that he—or some other hotheaded young fool—manages to evade us. I shudder to think of what might have happened had he made it past the shire. I need to have a word with his parents again. And then the gamekeepers, I think . . .”

  The woodsgirl had managed hardly a step. Perhaps she hoped the others were bluffing; Kit, however, knew Melanie better than that. With infinite care the girl slid back another step, and then Kit caught her profile. It was that lass, the scrawny one always ducking from crowds, peering out of shadows . . . what was her name? He frowned, trying in his mind to place her amid the intricate shoots and branches of the tribe families. He'd seen her mostly around the village, brown-haired, white-skinned. Timid. Mousy, even, if such a word could be applied to any member of their kin.

  Melanie's group began to walk toward her and the woodsmouse froze again—then lost her nerve. She skipped back. It was all Melanie needed.

  The four girls broke into a sprint.

  Kit straightened in his chair, forgetting his father's meeting. Four against one was hardly sporting, especially as the prey was so much younger than the hunters. The mouse vanished from view, swiftly followed by the others. He had glimpses of gowns flashing through the trees, and then nothing.

  Calm settled back upon the forest, unbroken, silent as winter snow.

  Kit uncrossed his ankles, considering. He'd seen the little mouse more and more of late, now that he thought about it. Always quiet, always alone.

  If she had any sense, she'd head for the river. They might lose her scent there—

  “Christoff? Christoff! Are you listening, boy?”

  “Aye,” Kit answered, with just that trace of surliness guaranteed to send color into his father's cheeks. “The perimeter, the runners. Dire peril to the tribe, et cetera.”

  “How gratifying to have your attention.” The marquess thinned his lips. “Perhaps, then, you might have a suggestion for the council?”

  For the first time Kit looked around at the gathered faces fixed upon him, tanned and pale and avid eyes.

  “Regarding the matter of your bride?” prompted his father softly.

  Kit opened his mouth to speak. But just then the woods erupted; the young girl hurtled out of the trees in a flap of skirts and mad streaming hair, her face flushed, cutting a sharp angle across the perfectly manicured rear lawn.

  Kit stood, and all the men turned.

  “What the—oh—it's—”

  “The Hawthorne gel,” said George. “Halfling. Clara, Clareta—”

  “Clarissa,” supplied Kit, in a spark of memory. “And Mel,” he added dryly, as the other four emerged at her heels, gaining.

  “Ah.” The marquess took his seat again with his back to the window. “Halfling. Well, then, no matter. Gentlemen, shall we continue?”

  But Kit remained standing, watching the lass run.

  She crept into the cottage kitchen on her toes but, as usual, wasn't furtive enough to fool her mother.

  “Clarissa? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She ought to have known she couldn't slip in and hide; her mother's senses were far too keen for that. Or perhaps it was the draft from the back door that gave her away. Either way, she thought glumly, she was caught now.

  “What are you doing, child?”

  “Washing up.”

  She dipped her hands into the chipped basin on the counter, scrubbing, watching the water turn pink with blood. She found the dishcloth and ran it over her face, wiping off the dirt, more blood.

  “Mama, would you like tea?” she called.

  “Yes, dear. That would be lovely.”

  She set the kettle to boil and scooped the tea leaves from this morning's breakfast, still damp, back into the teapot. She tossed the wash water out over the back steps—sending a quick, nervous look around the garden first—and then refilled it from the cistern.

  The kettle began to steam.

  By the pot of geraniums on the windowsill was the polished tin oval she had given her mother last Christmas, hung up by a yellow ribbon. It showed the kitchen in dusky gray and always made her face into a long, funny shape that reminded her of a fish, but it was still a better mirror than the windowpanes.

  Clarissa examined her reflection critically: her hair was snarled, the white tucker at her collar torn. There was dirt on her elbows and three drops of blood across her bodice. Her lower lip throbbed red and bruised.

  “Clarissa, I believe the water's ready.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  No time to change gowns. She brushed herself off as best she could, recaptured her hair and twisted it into a haphazard bun. She poured the hot water into the teapot, set it on the tray along with cups and honey and cream, and then bread with the last of the butter.

  One final look into the tin oval. Better, but not best. She widened her eyes to round perfect innocence and practiced a smile—wincing at her lip—then picked up the tray and carried it to her mother's room.

  Antonia Hawthorne was sitting up in bed, her ashen hair in plaits, her hands folded on her lap. It was one of her better days; Clarissa could hardly hear her breathing. Her face was drawn but her eyes ever bright as she surveyed her daughter. Her mouth took on a ruthful slant.

  “Oh, dear.”

  With great care, Clarissa set the tray upon the bedside table, unable suddenly to look up from the butter pats.

  “Tell me,” her mother invited in her soft, gentle voice. She waited as Clarissa fumbled with the spoons, her face still downturned, then said more firmly, “Clarissa Rue.”

  “An accident. I tripped over a tree root.”

  “Did you?”

  Clarissa tried her wide-eyed look upon the teapot, beginning to pour. “Yes. I was clumsy. I tripped, and then I rolled down a hill. You know that one just past Blackstone Fell. It's very steep.”

  “Yes. I know it is.”

  Clarissa handed her the cup, meeting her gaze. “And that's what happened.”

  Antonia took a sip of tea. “Was Miss Melanie there?”

  “No.”

  “Nor the others?”

  “No.” Clarissa began to meticulously butter the bread.

  “You must stay away from them. I've told you before. They will not be kind to you.”

  The bread in her hand began a watery waver; she squeezed her eyes closed and felt a tear slink down the side of her nose.

  “It is not your fault,” said Antonia.

  Another tear fell.

  “It is mine,” finished her mother, still soft.

  Clarissa dropped the bread to the tray, swiping at her eyes with greasy fingers.

  “Come here, my sweet girl,” said Antonia, and Clarissa sniffed and crawled over the covers, slippers and dirty gown and all, nestling into her mother's embrace.

  She smelled of medicine and lilacs. Her heartbeat was a fluttering thrum against Clarissa's ear.

  She felt her mother's hand lift, begin to work loose the unkempt knot she had made of her hair. Clarissa turned her head and spoke down into the pillows; her voice came out as a miserable whisper.

  “Won't they ever like me, Mama?”

  “No, beloved. They won't.”

  “But I try to be like them—”

  “You are more beautiful, more wonderful than all those savage girls put together. You are the most precious gift of my life. I am so proud of you, and your father would have been too. But . . .” Antonia's fingers paused; she seemed to be searching for words. “When the tribe looks at you—all they see is him. And he was not one of us.”

  “One of you, you mean,” Clarissa muttered.

  “One of us. Half your blood is my blood, the tribe's blood. Th
at is your heritage. No one can deny you it.”

  The ruffles of her mother's gown were thin and worn, crumpled beneath her cheek. She wiped away another tear.

  “Keep alone if you must, keep apart,” murmured Antonia, stroking her daughter's dark hair. “Someday you'll grow up to be a splendid young woman, and you'll find a man who will love you for exactly who you are, just as I did. But know, my darling, that no matter what the future brings, you will always have a place here, with the tribe.”

  ______

  She knew whom she wanted to love her. She knew whom she wanted to rescue her, to speak her name and laugh with her and defend her from the world with the sudden, blinding charm of his smile.

  Christoff. Golden, lovely Christoff, with his eloquent hands and sleepy green eyes that seemed to fill her soul whenever he chanced to see her. Which wasn't often, she had to admit. There wasn't a boy in the shire to compare to him. That's what Clarissa thought. And that's what Melanie and Liza and all the rest thought too. Clarissa knew, because even though she was only twelve and she hadn't the full blood of the tribe in her veins, she did have one single, clever skill: stealth.

  She was very good at it. Or, rather, she had been. Till this afternoon.

  She lay awake in her bed and counted the stars through her window, watching Cepheus and Cassiopeia tilt across the heavens. She loved the night best. It was the time for dreaming, for imagining what might be. Tonight the nightingale was singing from her nest in the garden laurel, aching, wistful notes that looped long and then warbled fleet, like water over a streambed. The gingham drape of her curtains framed the treetops that were the eastern end of the orchard. The cottage had been built by her grandfather beside the oldest and largest of the Roman apple trees. Every spring, the air smelled like paradise.

  But it was summer, not spring, and she felt too confined in her flannel nightgown and cap. She kicked off the covers but it didn't help; Cepheus still sparkled and the little bird still sang. Clarissa sat up and crossed to the window. A breeze skimmed her neck in cool temptation.

  When she turned her head she could hear her mother's breathing from the other room, slow and constant. Antonia usually slept deeply, the result of the medicine or her sickness or both.

  Clarissa changed quickly, finding her darkest gown, tearing off the bothersome cap. The window was already open; she climbed through it with the ease of complete familiarity, barefoot, landing lightly on the grass below.

  The nightingale cut its song short and Clarissa didn't move, waiting, listening as the bird did. But after a minute her song lifted again, and Clarissa took her skirts in her hands and stole out into the night.

  Freedom. It thrilled her, running a straight line down the center of the orchard, apples and cherries and pears dripping moonlight from the trees. If she ran fast enough it was almost like she could fly. She tried a few skipping hops, wondering what it would be like to feel her feet lift from the ground. Her braid slapped her back with every leap.

  There was no one to judge her here, no one to smirk at her, no one to hunt her. Out here, in the wilderness, she was unique and special and stronger than any member of the tribe. She was a princess—a queen—and all the others envied her, because she was the most powerful of all. And Christoff—

  He loved her. He adored her. They would fly together, just the two of them, across the earth.

  In time her run became a trot, and then a walk. The grass was velvet at her feet, the dirt soft as loam. The breeze murmured through the ancient trees. Clarissa found a pear and plucked it from its bough, holding the skin up to her nose, inhaling warm, ripe summertime.

  Her lip stung with the juice. But even that couldn't dim this moonlit moment. She ate her pear and endured the pain, tossing the core back to the fallen leaves when it was done.

  From the top of Blackstone Hill she'd be able to see Venus rise. She had a secret hollow there, a wee deer bed pressed back in the bracken and brush. She'd been waiting patiently but there hadn't been deer on the hill since June. Tonight, still empty, it was all hers.

  Clarissa found her spot, curled up with her knees to her chest, her arm a pillow beneath her cheek. From here she could see nearly all the valley, the black lacy woods and star-brushed sky. The moon hung fat and perfect over her head; she laid back and watched it drowsily, finding the familiar face in its shadows, the man in the moon . . . smiling at her. . . .

  She was dreaming. She dreamed of the breeze, but it was a wind now, a deep rushing pressure against the sky. The scent of smoke, and then laughter, quick and hushed. She heard someone speaking to her. It was Christoff, saying such marvelous things about the line of her neck, her lips. . . .

  Clarissa opened her eyes. The moon was gone, and so was her dream. She rolled over to sit up, sighing, picking a tuft of moss from her sleeve. And then, clear as day, Christoff spoke again.

  “But I can't stay any longer.”

  She jerked in place, blinking.

  “Oh, no, not so soon,” came a new, coaxing voice. “We've hours still, pet.”

  She shrank back with her hands over her mouth. Melanie! Christoff and Melanie, here on Blackstone Hill! In the dark. Not alone.

  Thank God she was downwind.

  “Perhaps you have,” said Christoff, sounding amused. “I'm expected at the crack of dawn. Another of Father's little family breakfasts.”

  Past the shrubs they were a starlit couple, entwined in the grass and what was left of their clothing. Melanie's hair was spread beneath her, a pretty fall of red-gold against her skin. And Christoff, much tanner than she, lean and shirtless, toyed with a lock of it, drawing it up and down her bare breasts. Despite his words, he looked in no hurry to depart.

  Clarissa closed her eyes and dropped her face into her hands. A branch snagged at her braid, pulling sharply at her nape.

  “Stay,” urged Melanie, in a throaty tone Clarissa envied down to her toes. “Just a while longer. I promise . . . you'll appreciate it.”

  “No doubt of that.” And Melanie giggled.

  Silence, or near silence, and Clarissa wished she could shut her ears as she could her eyes and not hear the muffled whisper of kisses, the stir of bodies against grass. Her cheeks began a burn against her palms.

  “But I can't,” said Christoff after a few more minutes of this torture. She heard him stand. “We'll meet up soon, Mel.”

  Clarissa peeked through her fingers. Melanie, still on the ground, was stretching her arms above her head; she was half nude and not at all dying of shame, the way Clarissa would be.

  “I don't know what your father could possibly say that could compare to this.”

  Christoff was lacing up his shirt. “As a matter of fact, he wants to talk about marriage. My marriage.”

  “Oh? Are you engaged, my lord?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Hmmm. Not yet. But who will be your bride, I wonder?” Melanie lifted a leg, flexing her toes in the silky light. “You can only wed another Alpha. And we all know who that is.”

  “Do we?”

  Melanie smiled up at him, arching her back, and Christoff's hands fell still. His hair was a golden dark tangle down his shoulders.

  The twig at Clarissa's nape pulled harder. She reached up, very carefully, and began to work it free.

  “Perhaps you'll be surprised,” he said, but he didn't sound as though he meant it.

  “I think not. I'm the dominant female. Everyone knows it. Besides,” Melanie laughed, throaty again, “I have reason to believe . . . that you quite like me.”

  The twig in Clarissa's hand snapped.

  Her body clenched, instant horror. She couldn't move to save her life—and she should have, she should have, because Christoff was there in a second, a swift shadow and then a hand slamming down. She was jerked to her feet, sending leaves and twigs scattering.

  “What the hell?”

  He had her lifted in the air by one arm, a painful grip. She dangled there helplessly with her heart strangling her throat.

>   “Kit!” Melanie's voice broke behind them. “What is it?”

  And he looked down at Clarissa with his head cocked, frowning, his eyes alight and thoughtful.

  “I fell asleep,” she said stupidly.

  He lowered his arm, and her feet found the dirt again.

  “You!” Melanie was at his side, her gown clutched to her bosom. “You, again! You filthy little spy!”

  “No,” said Clarissa, “no, I wasn't spying—”

  “Haven't you learned your lesson yet?” She took a step forward, her fingers knotted in the cloth. “I'll teach you to keep following me—”

  “I wasn't following you! I wasn't spying! I was here and I fell asleep—”

  Melanie's hand cracked across her cheek.

  “Jesus, Mel, leave off.” Christoff pushed between them, forcing the other girl away. Clarissa turned her head aside and worked her jaw. Her ears were ringing. She tasted blood.

  “But she was here, Kit, here the entire time, watching us!”

  He threw a green-eyed look back at her, half masked by his hair, then shrugged. “She said she was asleep.”

  “She's lying!”

  “I wasn't lying.”

  “Be quiet!”

  Clarissa touched the blood on her lip. “Anyway, I don't have to lie. I would have left if I'd known you were out. Everyone in the shire knows you come here with any man who'll bother to have you.”

  She couldn't believe she'd said it. For the space of a heartbeat there was an awful, massive silence; all she heard was her own breath, ragged in her lungs, and the slow falling drift of a leaf from the bush beside her to the ground.

  Melanie opened her mouth. Christoff clapped his hand over it.

  “That's enough. For God's sake, Mel, she's just a child.” He glanced at Clarissa once again, his expression oddly severe, as if he were caught between anger and laughter. “Go home. Now.”

  Her feet moved. She began to back away from them, her gaze not on Christoff but dead-still Melanie, who had pulled his hand from her face and was following her retreat with terrible eyes.