by Megan Hart
“But you look so lovely.” Risa said this charitably and could afford to, for though the gown had been sewn of expensive fabrics and cut to current style, it did not suit Annalise half as much as Risa’s did herself.
But then, that was the bride’s privilege. Annalise gritted out a smile. “More wine?”
Allorisa was craning her neck for the sight of her husband, Denver, who was still locked in the final waltz with some distant cousin. “Yes, yes, before he’s finished.”
Custom dictated the bride’s maid act the part of fetchencarry, so that was what Annalise would do. She refilled her sister’s cup, dodging a few well-meaning relatives who wanted to congratulate her on her upcoming nuptials, and returned it just as Denver found his new wife. The couple made a show of kissing sweetly at the request of the guests gathered ’round, and the announcement of supper was made. Annalise hung back, though her stomach rumbled. Her corset had been laced too tightly for her to enjoy the meal, and as her sister had insisted on the most gourmet of every dish, Annalise knew there would be a great many exotic dishes with tiny, insufficient portions and long pauses between the courses. If she were going to make it through this as well as sit at her sister’s elbow and serve her whatever her husband did not, she needed something to sustain her.
There was also the matter of the service her mother was now fluttering about. The Temple priests who’d performed the wedding ceremony even looked askance as Fluta Marony begged them with hands clasped to her bosom and fluttering eyelashes to lead a special afternoon service. Annalise’s mother didn’t notice the shifting sighs and looks the wedding guests gave, but even if she had, Annalise doubted it would matter. Her mother had long ago given herself fully to the Faith in every respect, though she’d left off forcing her children and husband to worship with her.
“It would be best to eat first,” said the tallest priest, the one who’d been to the house before and who knew Fluta’s eccentricities. “So that all might enjoy the service without distraction.”
It said much, Annalise thought, when a priest found her mother too enthusiastic in her worship. She took the chance to slip from the crowd. Bread and honey in the kitchen would settle her stomach while she waited on the poached quail’s eggs and copperfish roe. Annalise lifted her skirts, grateful at least for the flat-heeled slippers her sister had insisted she wear so as not to tower over her, and hopped across the kitchen threshold. Inside, the bustle and commotion did not dissuade her. Her mother preferred to cook most of their simple meals herself now that the family had so dwindled, but today all the cooking was being done by hired caterers. Annalise knew where to find the loaves of yesterday’s bread and crocks of sweet honey gathered from her father’s bees, and she ducked into the pantry without even speaking to any of the hired help.
Many manor homes had multiple pantries for wet and dry goods, chill and warm. At Marony House the kitchen had been expanded over time as money allowed and necessity dictated, so the main pantry had been carved from spare bits of space left when walls went up and others came down. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined a narrow, short hall with a jog at the end that led to the stairs of the cold cellar. The cool shadows and quiet were welcome after the hours of heat and noise outside, and Annalise paused to acclimate.
The low sound of murmured voices around the corner alerted her that she was not alone, and though she was surprised when she turned the corner, she was not shocked.
The young man wore his golden hair pulled back into an intricate braid down his back. Annalise studied his clothes, the high-throated shirt, the brightly patterned cravat, the long-cut trousers and tight-fitted westcoat that gave him his figure, rather than his body providing the form on which the clothes hung. Dressed with fashion, but not taste. Jacquin could’ve found better.
“Blessed Balls!” cried the blond young man.
“Indeed,” Annalise said with a quick sweep of her gaze over his dishevelment. She cast a longer look at his companion, who had the grace to look away. “I’ve just come for some honey. Please don’t let me interrupt.”
“But we weren’t—”
“Hush,” Jacquin said to the blond. “Mistress Marony is no fool. You should go.”
The blond nodded and ducked his head before brushing past her. The click of his bootheels was very loud, as was the creak of the pantry door and the influx of noise from the kitchen, which cut off when the door shut behind him. Jacquin leaned back against the railing to the cellar stairs. Annalise gave him her back to look for the crock of honey.
“Anna . . .”
“Hush.” She echoed him. “I am no fool.”
“Truly, we were only talking.”
One hand on the shelf to steady her, she turned with a throat afire from the effort of holding in a shout. “I believe your game involved the use of teeth and tongue, indeed, but you’ll find me fair doubtful as to it being only conversation.”
“And yet I swear to you that’s all we had, love.” Jacquin moved to touch her, and she pulled away.
They stared across the narrow space at each other. The sole illumination came from the narrow, high windows set along the roofline. There was enough light for her to have seen everything, to see all of it now. Jacquin’s frown and the flash of his eyes, the soft plumpness of his lips she recognized as the aftermath of passion.
“You dishonor me, Jacquin.”
“I swear to you, that was not my intent.”
“Then why do it? Here at my family’s house? By the Arrow, Jacquin, we are to be married in a month’s time. I know what you do in your own time before we are wed is of your own account, but . . .” Annalise swallowed hard.
“I plead your mercy. Truly, Annalise.”
Jacquin came from Alyria, where it had long been known that men who preferred the company of their own sex were freer with their public affections than was the case in some other places. Here in Evadia such intimacies were rather less accepted, at least in public. Though anything a man and a woman could get up to seemed entirely allowed, no matter how decadent, Annalise thought with bare-boned scorn as she remembered a couple she’d seen standing by the fountain. The woman wore a golden choker that would have looked like nothing more than expensive jewelry if not for the slim leash of golden chain attaching it to the bracelet of the man beside her. It had been difficult to tell if the length allowed either of them sufficient room to move apart or if they always need stay at each others’ elbows.
Annalise shuddered at the thought of it.
She sighed and leaned against the shelves, her appetite fled. She’d accepted Jacquin’s troth a year ago, just a sevenday after Allorisa had taken Denver’s. Annalise enjoyed the privileges of maidenhood and yet grew weary of being her father’s chattel. Trading that in for the position of wife seemed a pleasant enough arrangement. And she’d known Jacquin for near her entire life, after all.
She knew him.
“Hush, love, don’t cry.” Jacquin pressed a thumb to her cheek and took it away glistening with her tear. “Please. I swear to you the lad approached me. In a moment of weakness I allowed him to pull me inside—I never meant to do more than speak with him about why I must needs refuse his offer.”
Annalise captured Jacquin’s hand between hers and kissed his knuckles gently before releasing it. “Sweetheart, I know that.”
He startled and pulled his hand from hers. “Do you?”
“Think you I could know so well the color of your eyes, your favorite dessert, the way you cheat at cards, and yet not also know the other truths of you?”
“I think you don’t know as much truth as you think.”
“Jacquin, will you be happy?”
It was not the place to ask such a question, there amongst the bags of flour and crocks of jams and butters. Perhaps there was no good place to ask. Jacquin answered, anyway.
“I would do my best to try.”
Annalise sighed and ran a fingertip along the shelf, which gave up only the finest hint of dust. She rubbed it between
her thumb and forefinger. “As would I. But would it be enough?”
Jacquin tilted his head to look her up and down. He stepped back. “What exactly are you saying?”
She had to strain her ears to hear even a hint of the merriment outside and maybe even that was her imagination. Outside in the garden, her sister danced with her new husband. In nine months time or close to it, Annalise guessed, her sister’s belly would swell with that man’s child, giving him an heir and Allorisa a reason to occupy her time with somewhat other than herself. Outside in the garden, guests ate and drank her parents’ hospitality, provided by their new son’s coin.
And all of that would be hers in a few short weeks. The rest of her life would stretch out in front of her—marriage. Motherhood. A pleasant home of her own and a husband who would do his best to make her happy but would never love her the way she desired, no matter how he was able to force himself toward it. She’d been able to overlook all of this before, but today, now, seeing the joy on her sister’s face and knowing it would never be hers struck something deep inside her.
“Jacquin,” Annalise said. “I cannot marry you.”
Chapter 2
Striking Serpent. Biting Dog. Leaping Monki.
Cassian Toquin moved through the forms of the Art with practiced discipline and ended with his feet together, hands tight-pressed palm to palm, fingers pointing to his chin. The sun had scarcely peeped over the horizon and yet sweat trickled down the line of his spine. He tasted salt when he licked his mouth. He opened his eyes.
Above him he heard the hushed titters of his audience, which he ignored. Instead, he bent to lift his shirt from the ground where he’d tossed it. With swift fingers he smoothed his hair back from his face, grateful he’d kept it shorter than fashion dictated. It fell over his eyes but not down the back of his neck.
The creak of a window caught his attention, and he looked upward. Once a novitiate had fallen from the third story as she leaned to get a better glimpse. Fortunately she’d fallen into the cart of straw and manure Felix the gardener had parked by the flowerbeds in preparation for their fertilization. The girl had been bruised and humiliated but she’d lived.
Though he glimpsed the forms and faces of several novitiates in the shadowed rooms of the Motherhouse, none of them were hanging from the ledge. Yet. Someone had cranked open the window either to allow in a breeze or to get a better look at him as he exercised, but now had retreated. It was better that way. Cassian found it easier to teach the young women in service when he didn’t have to face them as admirers.
His other admirer was not so silent. “How long did it take you to learn the Art, Master Toquin? How long to become a master?”
“I’m not a Master of the Art, Kellen. I just practice it. I could practice it every day for the rest of my life and not master it.”
Kellen, tousle-headed and blond, frowned. “I don’t think I’d like to do something every day and know I’d never become good enough at it to be called a master.”
Cassian smiled but stopped himself from ruffling the lad’s hair. “There are many skills in life that can’t be completely mastered. One can become proficient, and that should be enough.”
Kellen followed Cassian to the pump in the yard where he ran the water, frigid from its source deep underground. Cassian splashed his face, blowing great breaths at the chill, and dripping, swiped at his face. Kellen already had Cassian’s jacket ready, held out like an offering. Cassian took it.
“You needn’t play the part of my fetchencarry, Kellen. I’m quite capable of gathering my own belongings.”
“I know,” Kellen answered cheerfully. “But I like watching you.”
It would be a number of years until the lad discovered the joys of living in a house filled almost exclusively with women. Right now, all he saw were the pains. Cassian took the jacket, hung it over his arm. He meant to return to his quarters for a bath rather more private than he had opportunity for now.
“Do you?”
“Oh, yes. The Mothers say I’m to learn what I can from you, at any rate. Not the Art,” Kellen added. “I don’t think they care much for that.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do.” The Art was a man’s domain, though Cassian had heard tell of women who practiced it. He couldn’t quite imagine what they’d ever need it for, but he’d heard stories. “Mothers don’t always understand the importance of the same things men do.”
Kellen laughed, eyes crinkling. “No!”
“I was a good deal older than you are now when I first took up the practice. I should think you’d be able to learn faster than I did.”
Kellen’s grin did its best to break Cassian’s heart, but he’d grown accustomed to making it into stone. The Art was not the only thing he’d long practiced. The lad leaped into the air in a fair impression of Striking Serpent.
“Like this?”
“Very good. Not quite.” Cassian hung his jacket on the pump handle and showed Kellen the form. “Like this.”
Kellen did it again, better this time. He stumbled a little when he came down, but his hands were in the right place. In the bright morning sun, his hair shone like gold. His eyes, though filled with merriment at the moment, were dark. Cassian didn’t like to look at Kellen’s face overlong. It reminded him too much of what he’d prefer to forget.
From inside the Motherhouse, a chime rang.
“Come. It’s time to go inside.”
Kellen nodded obediently. “Maybe tomorrow you can show me more, Master Toquin? Please?”
“We’ll see if you’ve made it out here so early, Kellen. But . . . yes. I see no reason why you couldn’t join me.” There was no reason, which was the only reason Cassian agreed. To forbid it would only hurt the lad with no excuse, and Cassian found himself unable to be so cruel to one who didn’t deserve it.
“You’d best hurry, else you’ll be late.” Cassian waved a hand. “Go.”
Watching the boy go, Cassian mouthed the first part of the morning prayer. The second part came as he crossed the yard toward the house. The third he muttered as he quickly stripped out of his dirty clothes in his room and bathed from the basin of cold water. In moments he was dressed again in the masculine version of the Handmaidens’ high-necked, long-sleeved uniform, his a jacket instead of a gown of course, but with the same row of buttons down the front. He pulled the red of his shirt to show just below the black sleeves of his jacket.
None of the words had mattered. He said the prayers by rote and habit, and though he slid into his seat in the dining room with the final syllable still clinging to his tongue, not one part of the prayer had moved him. Nor did the words he spoke before he broke his bread, but he said them anyway, hoping to feel his maker’s touch.
“Good morn to you, Master Toquin. I see you were hard at work already.” Mother Harmony stopped by his table on the way to her own, a platter of biscuits and butter in her hands. “Such discipline is admirable, if not necessary.”
“Not necessary,” he agreed as the serving girl put a bowl of rice mush and simplebread in front of him. “But highly gratifying.”
“It does keep you rather fit,” Harmony said with a purse of her lips and a glance at her own well-rounded figure.
“I’d be happy to teach you, Mother. Any time you wish.” It was easy to make an offer he knew would be refused.
Harmony laughed at this and gestured with her knife. “Oh, my dear, no thank you. I’ve long grown past the age when a bit of extra flesh discourages me. But you keep on with it, if it brings you pleasure.”
There was more to it than that. Cassian didn’t practice the Art for the sake of fitness, or even in anticipation of needing it for defense. There seemed little enough chance for that, seeing his position as Master of the Faith here in the Order of Solace Motherhouse was fair guaranteed to never require him to fight anyone. No, Cassian kept up with the discipline because he’d already lost too many things that mattered. He couldn’t bear to let go of another, even one that taxed his
aging muscles and woke him earlier than he was naturally inclined, one that took much from him and gave him little. He would practice the Art as long as he could stand upright to do so because it reminded him of his brother. Of Calvis.
“You should eat more,” Harmony continued, peering more closely at him. “You’re too thin.”
Cassian had little to say to that. To deny it would cause her to flutter and cluck; to agree was ridiculous. “I am as the Invisible Mother intends me to be.”
Harmony sighed and wagged a finger at him. “Can’t get around you, can I?”
Again, Cassian wasn’t sure what to say and only nodded, relieved when Mother Harmony waddled away to her own seat. The Order of Solace had its roots in the Temple of the Book, but it was a purely feminine domain. Cassian was one of only three men in the room. One of less than a dozen men on the grounds. After close to ten years in service here, Cassian still had little to say to the women beside whom he’d worked for so long. The Mothers and Sisters-in-Service were no more familiar to him than his own mother and sisters had ever been, or any woman, for that matter. He enjoyed their company and knew they found his at least tolerable. He knew they respected his place within their Order, even as they all knew he’d never be a part of it. But he did not understand them, and doubted he ever would.
Breakfast finished, the novitiates dismissed, Cassian had little time before he was due to address his first class of the day. He meant to use the few precious moments in preparation, setting out the copies of the texts, making sure the room had not grown too stifling, lighting the scented candles. Girding his figurative loins. A hand on his sleeve stopped him in the hall, novitiates in their colored headscarves bustling all around him.
“Master Toquin, I would have you speak to my herb preparation class this morn, if you’ve time.” The request came from Sincerity. In contrast to the novitiates in their bright headscarves, her long dark hair hung in an intricate braid to her hips. Her gown, though cut in the familiar fashion, was of lightweight and pale blue linen. “We are studying the trefoil today.”
