The Orphan's Secret

by R. J. Francis

  Jaimin was livid. He was fully prepared to rip Raquel apart with his bare hands were she to loosen her hold. Until she did, he was absolutely at her mercy.

  Unfortunately, mercy was something she had little of. She climbed up onto his lap, straddled him, nuzzled her forehead right up to his and peered into his eyes. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Bam! She dove into his mind, which he felt as an impact: acutely painful, as if he’d dove off a tall tower, landed on his head, and survived. She was an amateur. Reckless. She injected her mind-meddling toxin indiscriminately into every corner of his psyche, and its acid seared his head from the inside.

  Once inside him, she found such pleasure in hurting him she didn’t care if she was scuttling her plans for seizing power. Torturing him was physical ecstasy, and a heavenly release from her abundant insecurities. So she continued, and continued, and continued.

  “Tok, tok, tok, tok, tok!” The banging woke Nastasha. She flipped in her bed. Her forehead throbbed.

  “Tok, tok, tok, tok, tok!” again at the door. It sounded urgent. “Tok, tok, tok, tok, tok!”

  “Please,” Nastasha called. She rolled out of bed and tried to find solid footing on the wool rug. “I’m here.”

  She didn’t know where her mother was, what time of day it was, why the room was spinning, or why she had such a grievous headache. Whoever was at the door seemed to have heard her, for the rhythmic pounding stopped. She staggered across the dim living room, glanced down to make sure she was dressed, and puzzled over why she had gone to sleep in her daytime clothes. Swinging open the door, while leaning on it for support, she squinted into the brighter light of the hall. The queen and two of her personal guards came into focus. “Your Majesty,” Nastasha said, with a wobbly curtsey.

  “Nastasha,” said Queen Alethea. “Where is my son?” The queen’s hands trembled and her facial muscles twitched.

  Nastasha found it hard to even grasp the question. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but I’m ill. I shall try to recall where I last saw him.” The queen just stared as Nastasha tried to remember where she’d last seen Jaimin. Yes! It was up on the wall! Then he’d gone off to his room. But there was something else, she thought, something hazy in her mind yet very important.

  “My dear,” said the queen, “do you know where he is now?”

  Nastasha closed her eyes and struggled to remember. Raquel’s mischievous grin and flowing black hair came to mind, along with an uncomfortable gnawing feeling.

  “Please,” the queen begged. “He’s in great distress, but I don’t know where he is or who has him. He’s not in his room.”

  “Oh… damn! Come with me!”

  Nastasha led the queen and her guards in a run toward Raquel’s apartment. On the way, she realized she wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  When they got to Raquel’s door and found it locked, Queen Alethea shouted, “Break it down!”

  Confident that Her Majesty would forgive his initiative, one of the guards took the less dramatic course of opening the door with his master key. With the queen leading the way, the rescue party rushed into the apartment and made for Raquel’s bedroom.

  When they entered the hellish chamber, Jaimin was sprawled on the padded chair, his head lolling and swaying as if he were being slapped by an invisible hand. Raquel, startled, leapt backward onto her bed and crouched like a grasshopper, glaring at her uninvited visitors. Nastasha ran to Jaimin’s side.

  “Who said you could be here?” Raquel shrieked, directing her rage at the queen, who advanced, ready to snap the girl’s neck. “Get out of here!” Raquel screamed. “And get all your lackeys out of here!”

  The queen jiggled her head sharply, trying to shake off Raquel’s potent command. Guards scrambled onto the bed to subdue Raquel, but as they did, the flustered girl howled at each of them, “Get back!” They backed off in a panic, nearly knocking over Nastasha.

  Nastasha avoided watching the confrontation taking place on the bed. She knew how easy it would be for Raquel to seize her mind. If anyone had a fighting chance against the witch up there, it was Jaimin’s furious mother.

  When things up on the bed suddenly got quiet, though, Nastasha had to risk a glance to see what had happened. Raquel lay unconscious, her face and neck as pale as a marble statue. The queen was emptying a pillowcase of its silk stuffing, and she pulled it over Raquel’s head and shoulders as if she were bagging a poisonous snake.

  Seconds later, the snake was awake again, clawing at Alethea and trying to squirm her way free. “Help me,” the queen cried to her guards, but they were still under Raquel’s spell, climbing all over each other, trying to get into the same corner.

  Nastasha answered the queen’s call and jumped up onto the bed. Together, the two ladies overpowered Raquel, tying her arms and feet behind her back using the bed sheets.

  “I hate you!” Raquel screamed. “You’re not the queen, I’m the queen. I’m the queen of everything!” She tossed her head, hoping to butt someone. “You should know something about your son, bitch.” She was starting to lose her voice. “Yes, I know all his secrets now. He hasn’t been following his father’s orders…”

  Nastasha smacked Raquel to stun her, then balled up a corner of a sheet to shove into Raquel’s mouth. Just as Nastasha’s hand neared Raquel’s mouth, Raquel bit it—hard—but Nastasha managed to wriggle it free and secure the rest of the sheet around the girl’s head.

  Alethea directed the cowering guards to fetch other guards who could assist with the arrest, and they ran out. While the queen and Nastasha waited for backup, they kept fighting to restrain their writhing, wailing prisoner, who seemed impossibly strong.

  Nastasha bought time by getting Raquel into a headlock. “May I kill her now?” Nastasha asked.

  “Not yet,” said the queen.

  Raquel tried repeatedly to take control of Nastasha’s mind through the physical contact, but the queen was there to interrupt each psychic grasp with a whack to Raquel’s shrouded face. Blood from Nastasha’s hand splattered onto the bedding and the queen’s gown. Some of the blood might have been from Raquel’s face, they were having to beat her so hard.

  Six more guards arrived, and Nastasha and the queen were finally able to hand Raquel over. Jaimin was slumped over. “Get him to the infirmary!” Alethea urged. A veteran guard named Syan scooped the prince from the chair, draped him over his shoulder, and hurried off, followed by the queen, Nastasha, Arin, and a guard named Canterel. The other three guards wrapped Raquel in a blanket, and dragged her off to the dungeon like a sack of flour.

  On the way, Nastasha applied pressure to her bloody hand with a clump of silk. She explained to the queen: “Raquel attacked me this afternoon. That’s why I was so confused when you knocked.”

  “I’m sorry, child,” said the queen. “It’s odd you remember her attack.”

  “I know it is.”

  “Don’t leave the infirmary until you’ve had a full evaluation. Mental and physical.”

  “I understand, Your Majesty.” They rounded a corner.

  “Elaina!” said Nastasha, suddenly, on recalling the other aspect of the Raquel threat. “She’s in great danger!”

  “Elaina is safe,” the queen said discreetly. “Earlier this afternoon there was an attempt on her life, but she was not seriously harmed. And where is your mother?”

  “My mother! Raquel said she’d sent her off.”

  “I don’t like how that sounds,” the queen said. “Canterel!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the guard.

  “Find Nauplia. And let me know the instant Devon returns to the castle.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “My son is fortunate to have you for a friend,” the queen told Nastasha. “And I am grateful.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. Your son is very special to me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Here’s our new home,” Elaina had whispered in Nightmare’s ear when they arrived at Alessa’s house.


  “Why don’t you take a bath?” Alessa suggested when Elaina came in from the stable. “It’ll help you calm down. Don’t worry about unpacking yet.”

  Elaina nodded.

  “I’ll go back for the rest of your things. Will you be okay by yourself?”

  She nodded again. Alessa’s place still looked and felt the same, but Elaina, having gone through so much, felt a bit like a stranger now.

  While Alessa made another trip to the farm with Tyrant, Elaina lit all the lamps and struck up the stove. From the pump she filled a deep cast-iron pot, and while that warmed she fetched a pitcher, a towel, a tea-green robe, a pair of sheepskin slippers, and a painted wicker box packed tightly with soaps, scrubs, floral oils, wood oils, herbaceous oils, fruit oils, chunks of pumice, and other bathing implements. It took several trips for her to lug everything out to the sheltered deck in back of the house.

  There, she undressed and scrubbed herself in the icy air. The moon behind the ridge was just starting to brighten the sky.

  Shadows conspired with the evening’s silence to play tricks on Elaina’s mind. In the swirling, grey steam that rose from her skin, she could make out the horrible image of Tran her mind had registered at the very instant of his death. When she looked away, out of the forest’s blackness came another Tran, this one alive, wild-eyed, charging at her with the meat knife. Uhhhh! She cowered, even though she knew he wasn’t real.

  She scrubbed herself harder, thinking she might rid herself of the visions if only she could scour every last bit of the boy’s blood from her skin.

  “Deep breathing cleanses the mind,” Alessa had always said, so Elaina sucked in as much air as she could, flooding her brain with oxygen. With each drawn out, deliberate breath the images grew fainter, until at last Tran was gone.

  Then the moon reminded her of something: Jem’s going to be waiting for me!

  She didn’t want Jaimin to see her in such a fragile condition, but she had to get word to him somehow. Surely he’d forgive her for missing their rendezvous, but what would he think when he found out why she hadn’t shown up? Would he ever want to see her again? Could he forgive a killer?

  She washed her hair, added some rose oil to the water, and rinsed. Her welt stung.

  She dried off quickly, wrapped up, and came inside. Alessa was back already, unloading bags and boxes from a wagon she’d enlisted Tyrant to pull. They carried the cargo up the wooden stairs to the spare room. The room’s cedar-lined walk-in closet had more than enough space for all of Elaina’s belongings.

  Elaina hadn’t said anything to Alessa since leaving the farm. On their fifth trip up the stairs, Alessa offered, “If you need me, I’m here.”

  “I know. Just keep an eye on me.”

  “I will,” said Alessa.

  “Thanks for taking me in.”

  “Of course. I wish I could have had you full time from the beginning. This is your home now, understand?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I mean it. You’re not a guest. The room, the house—it belongs to you.”

  On their final ascent, Elaina asked, “Has anyone gone looking for Lairen?”

  “We found him tied up in one of the grain bins. He was okay.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything.” Alessa hoisted a canvas backpack full of Elaina’s books onto a shelf in the closet. “Devon dealt with him. Lairen won’t remember you or Tran ever existed. Neither will the neighbors, or your regular customers, or the guys at the mill.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “It’s the only way. I’m sorry.”

  Poor Lairen! Losing his wife, then his son, then the girl he’d cared for all those years! Elaina would treasure the memories of the happy times they’d shared. And the neighbors—she’d remember them fondly, especially Binthia, the sweet old lady who had taught her how to cook. “Does he have to visit the neighbors?” Elaina asked.

  “I’m sure he will,” Alessa said. “I paid him to be thorough.”

  Elaina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You hired Devon?”

  “I did.”

  “How could you? He’s terrible!”

  “Trust me, Elaina, what happened tonight at your place called for his expertise. Only he wasn’t supposed to make contact with you.”

  “That man’s an absolute monster. Do you think he knows about me and Jem?”

  “Let’s hope not,” Alessa said.

  Elaina sat on the edge of her new bed after everything was put away. “Tonight, I was supposed to meet Jem again,” Elaina said. “The moon’s up now. Would you mind going out to the overlook and telling him there was an emergency?”

  “He won’t be there.”

  “What?”

  “His bodyguard knows what he’s been up to, and is going to confront him tonight.”

  “Ugh! And you knew this?” Elaina flopped back on the bed. She closed her eyes and fooled with her wet hair. A few tears fell.

  Alessa sat down beside her.

  “You always know what’s going on, and you tell me so little,” Elaina said.

  “Soon you’ll know everything.”

  “Yesterday you promised to explain how it is we can control water. That’s how I killed Tran, isn’t it? If I’d known I could kill him like that, I would have…”

  “You would have hesitated, and you would have died, Elaina.”

  “But I…”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “No, of course not. You’re never wrong.”

  “You had to defend yourself. I’m not trying to minimize what happened, but you’re not to blame. Tran came after you.”

  Elaina pictured the chunks of pink rolling out of Tran’s ears and she still felt like a murderer. How do you know what happened in that house? You weren’t there, she thought.

  “But I was there,” Alessa answered aloud. “I know when people I love are in trouble. It’s a gift. You have it too.”

  “So I would know if… Jem’s in trouble.”

  “I suppose you would. Why?”

  Elaina cocked her head, as if listening. “I think he’s in trouble right now.”

  “I told you, his bodyguard planned to confront him.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. It’s worse than that.”

  “Tell me what you feel.”

  Nurse Isabel had Syan carry the prince into the infirmary’s primary operating room. Arin and the queen went in too, but Nastasha was relegated to a bed in the main ward. Galen—the chief physician and Nastasha’s mentor—arrived promptly and ducked into the operating room, followed shortly afterward by King Julian.

  Nastasha was glad everyone was ignoring her. She could treat her wounded hand herself, and Jaimin needed all the attention he could get. She got up and made a trip to the supply room.

  Back on her bed, she had to put in a few stitches, and it was tricky to tie them with one hand and tighten them with her teeth, but she managed it.

  As she sat in the bed disinfecting, sewing up, and dressing her punctured flesh, she wondered how she was able to recall Raquel’s ambush. She went through the whole awful series of events in her mind, beginning with her arrival home, and concluding with Raquel’s hands around her neck. Her theory was that she remembered it all because she’d passed out before Raquel could properly command her to forget.

  Isabel made several trips out to the supply room, and one time, on her way back, she handed Nastasha a medicine cup filled with a syrupy orange liquid. “We shall be with you soon, Nastasha. Since you’ll be staying the night, here’s your elixir.”

  Nastasha didn’t thank her. She was appalled Isabel had taken the time to dose a nutritional supplement when Jaimin was in such dire need.

  Isabel made a fresh batch of her elixir every day for the royal court and castle guards. The kids called it “yuck sauce.” Its base—tomato juice—wasn’t bad by itself, but after the nurse added vitamins and bitter herbal extracts the stuff was hardly palatable. During dinner, mai
dservants left a crystal flask of the repugnant fluid on a silver tray on each nightstand in the castle, so everyone could drink it at bedtime.

  Nastasha sniffed the cup’s contents. Most of the court drank their yuck sauce without protest, but not her. She made her own elixir: a tasty citrus blend, chartreuse, of a thinner consistency than Isabel’s, with ingredients that sharpened the mind. She distributed it weekly to some of her closest friends from school, on the condition that they not tell a soul they were dumping Isabel’s concoction down the sink each night.

  Holding her nose, Nastasha drizzled the vegetable potion down her throat, just to get rid of it. Blech! It was much nastier than she had remembered; it tasted only remotely like tomatoes.

  Canterel arrived, pulled up a stool, and told Nastasha her mother had been found sleeping behind a couch in the theatre’s dressing room.

  “Is she all right?”

  “She seemed fine to me,” said Canterel. “She’s going to join you here soon.”

  Just then, a scream rang out from the operating room. Nastasha jumped, and some of the elixir that hadn’t quite reached her stomach came part of the way back up.

  The scream had come from Jaimin, and it was full of fear and pain, as if he were on fire. He screamed until his lungs ran out of air. Then, after a grating wheeze, he yelled again. He kept on like this, with each scream angrier and higher in pitch than the last, as if he were frustrated at having to refill his lungs.

  Nastasha’s eyes welled up with tears. Canterel offered his hand, which she grasped tightly. To distract herself from the horror, she counted the screams: three, four, five—is he done?—six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen… And then, suddenly, the place went quiet.

  Jaimin?

  What’s happened?

  Everything stayed quiet. Nastasha forced herself to repeat silent prayers to get her mind off what might be going on in there. Canterel got a call in his earpiece to assist with something relating to Devon. He didn’t want to leave Nastasha there by herself, but she made him go.