The Ground She Walks Upon

by Meagan Mckinney

  “Not what?” Chesham piped in.

  Trevallyan looked at him as if he had just now noticed him. He didn’t answer.

  Chesham shook his head in despair. “If the situation’s as bleak as your face, coz, I recommend you try anything and everything.”

  “Perhaps I shall,” Trevallyan answered absentmindedly, already ringing for Greeves.

  Ravenna knew when Trevallyan had entered the apartment. It wasn’t that she heard him, exactly; rather, she felt him. As Grania felt spirits by the imprint of emotions they left behind on the mortal earth, she felt the anger enter the room like a specter who had taken up haunting.

  She said nothing. Looking up from the desk where her writing had soured on the page like the blotch she had left with her pen, she mutely met his gaze, took the inkwell in her grasp, and hurled it at his head.

  He stepped neatly aside. It crashed against the wall, leaving behind a weeping stain of indigo.

  “Is that how this is to be?” he asked grimly.

  “How else would you have it? I told you a slave has no love for his master.” She grasped a small Staffordshire figurine of Isis and threatened with it as well. “Unless you plan to free me, get out.”

  “I came to invite you to Chesham’s ball.” His gaze wandered to the direction of his dressing room. “And to get a change of clothes. Even my tailor can’t work miracles overnight.”

  “Oh no you won’t.” She skittered toward the dressing-room doorway. Holding the Staffordshire goddess as a weapon, she blocked his entrance. “Get out. Your clothing is my hostage here. You want fresh linen, then you’ll free me first.”

  He stepped toward her. She lifted the figurine higher.

  He ducked just as the piece sailed over his head and shattered against the carved doorway in the antechamber, scarring it.

  “Are you through with this temper tantrum?” he asked quietly.

  Her eyes filled with tears of frustration. “You call yourself a modern thinker, yet you hold me captive here as if you were as backward as your American slaveholding friends.”

  “What choice do I have? If I set you running, you’ll run so far I’ll never catch you.”

  “You’ve gotten that right,” she spat as he lifted her aside and walked into his dressing room.

  He chose a few necessary articles from the wardrobe drawers and faced her once more. “No opinion on my ball?”

  “You must be mad if you think I would attend a ball as your prisoner.” Her eyes blazed with fury.

  “Even if I were to invite the whole county? Even if your grandmother were to attend and it would worry her sick if she were to believe you a prisoner here?”

  Ravenna stared at him, despising his blackmail. “You know I’ll escape if you let me down from here to attend a ball.”

  “You’ll never leave my side.”

  “Impossible. You can’t keep me with you all night.”

  “Try me.”

  They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills.

  Finally she said, “Go on, have your ball. I’ll be gone from here by then. Even if I have to summon Malachi to come help me.”

  He twisted his lips in a terrible smile. “If Malachi shows here, I’ll kill him and well you know it. Is his death worth a little freedom?”

  “I hate you,” she whispered.

  He stepped toward her and looked down at her, almost nose to nose. “Savor it.”

  He quirked his lips in farewell and locked the door behind him.

  The afternoon brought a flurry of activity for the usually quiet keep. Katey came with servants bringing the copper bathtub, but she left as soon as Ravenna sank into the fragrantly scented water.

  And she took with her Ravenna’s only dress, the blue woolen.

  Stumped, Ravenna soaked, and wondered what Katey was up to. It only took a few minutes before the servant returned, dress in hand, and then Ravenna didn’t need to question her. By the brigade of maids trailing in from the dressing room, all bearing bolts of silks and satins in their small arms, Ravenna knew trickery was at hand.

  “Tell Lord Trevallyan that I don’t want any gowns made,” she said as soon as she had risen from the tub and wrapped a linen towel around her wet body.

  “You cannot be wearing this old gown forever, miss. And what about the ball? It’s in two days.” Katey laid the tired blue wool gown across a chair, readying it for her mistress to don once more.

  Angered, Ravenna pulled her old, rather snug, chemise down over her bosom so quickly, she actually ripped it. “Bloody hell,” she murmured, poking her finger through the seam beneath her arm.

  “What did you say, miss?”

  “One of Himself’s favorite expressions.” Ravenna grabbed her corset and began to lace it. All the while she fumed. Katey certainly had cheek, there was no doubt about it. The servant had never quite approved of Ravenna’s illegitimacy. The woman seemed the last sort to go along with this kidnapping, but here she was, the devil’s handmaid, assisting Trevallyan with every task.

  Ravenna glanced at her. Sadly, she knew all too well why Katey went along with it. The rules were different for Ascendency. And they were different for outcasts. A decent sort could look the other way for one but not the other.

  “I’m not going to Chesham’s fool ball, and that’s it.” Ravenna wriggled into the bodice of her gown and shook out the skirt. The gown was no better than a rag, even compared to Katey’s plain black linen dress.

  “You’ve got to go to the ball, miss. Everyone’s invited. The entire county. Besides,” Katey’s voice lowered, “I hate to think what Himself’d do if you failed to show.” She ignored Ravenna’s attempted retort. Stepping to the bed, she dismissed the maidservants and held up each bolt of exquisite fabric. “Which do you like the best? The master wants you to pick out five.”

  Ravenna flicked her gaze at the costly mound on the bed. There was a moire the color of bordeaux, a heavy purple satin stripe, even a plaid taffeta in subtle shades of rose, black, and green. All of them were gorgeous. Costly. Downright heavenly. In any other circumstance she might have gloried in having a gown made of any one of them. But not as a gift from Trevallyan. She wasn’t his mistress, nor his slave. She could clothe herself.

  “Take these away. I won’t choose any of them.” She turned her back to the bed and hooked the front of her blue gown.

  “But, miss—” Katey closed her mouth upon seeing Ravenna’s dark frown. “All right. I’ll take them away,” she said uneasily. “But don’t be surprised if Himself makes me choose the silks for you. He was the one who told me to get your measurements from that dress you’re wearing now.”

  “Just take them away. I don’t want any dresses.” Ravenna turned to her. “You’ll tell him, won’t you?”

  Katey nodded her neatly pinned gray head. “I will, miss. You can be sure of it.”

  Katey left the room, locking the servants’ jib door behind her. Ravenna squelched the urge to throw something at it as well.

  Dinner came and went without Katey mentioning the dresses. Ravenna couldn’t have cared less if they had sent the silks back to France, or Spitalfields, or wherever they came from. She didn’t want to think of them anymore.

  But then evening came, the long stretch of darkness before bed, with nothing to do but huddle by the fire, squint at a book in the candlelight. Depression fell over her as she despondently stared at the flickering hearth. She wanted to go home, not just because she missed Grania, but because she wanted the company, too. All these days in the tower with no one but Katey to speak to were beginning to wear on her.

  She tried not to think about Trevallyan, but her thoughts wandered to him against her will. She wondered what he was doing now. Greeves had probably served him dinner in the small tapestry room. No doubt, he had had company in to dine. Chesham was at the castle. The two men were probably right now laughing over some bawdy tale in the library. Trevallyan probably hadn’t thought of her all day.

  She shifted in her chair,
forlornly playing with a thread that had come loose on her sleeve. Trevallyan was not to enter her thoughts, she commanded herself; still, the image of him smiling, laughing, brooding seeped into her mind. Too, came the picture of herself that afternoon, bored and restless. The thought of it made her cringe. She had had nothing to do so she’d entered the dressing room and decided to explore its contents in hopes of finding perhaps something that might help her leave the keep. She’d found nothing, except another disturbing revelation.

  Upon opening the wardrobe where he kept his shirts and frock coats neatly hung on gold hooks, she’d been struck by a scent. It was Trevallyan’s smell. It lingered inside his clothing and permeated the mahogany interior of the case, and gave her a distinctly strange feeling deep inside her belly, as if her body were reacting to the scent, even if her mind would not. She hadn’t wanted to, but she had closed her eyes and tried to imagine his face. She’d succeeded with aching clarity, just as she was succeeding now. And her punishment for such folly was to feel even lonelier than she had before.

  She pulled the thread and rent her sleeve. Feeling tears of frustration come to her eyes, she stood and headed for the bookshelves. She was not going to think of Trevallyan. She was not.

  But she did think of Trevallyan. And as if her thoughts had conjured up the reality, she looked to the door and there he stood, watching her from the shadowy threshold, his eyes needful, yet angry.

  “Have you come to let me out, or would you have another figurine hurled at your head?” She raised one eyebrow, mocking his own mannerism. Coolly, she turned her attention back to the tomes on the shelf, hoping she well hid the fact that her hands were shaking and the room had suddenly turned warm. A little too warm.

  “Katey tells me you haven’t been eating or writing.” He pulled the doors closed behind him and stepped inside the circle of light.

  Ravenna wanted to growl. So that was why every chance she got, Katey shuffled through the papers on Trevallyan’s desk. “I hope you pay Katey well. Spying should not come cheap.”

  “She’s loyal.” He eased himself down in the chair opposite hers, the worn one.

  “Too loyal,” she muttered.

  “I can understand your lack of appetite, but why haven’t you been writing?”

  She turned around, her fury a magnificent sight to see. “How could you possibly think I could do anything here?”

  “I want you to write.” His gaze never wavered from her face. “You need to write.”

  Filled with doubt, her eyes were unable to lie. In a low, defeated tone, she said, “I’ve decided not to write anymore. It’s a waste of time. I believe you now when you say I’d never have gotten it published.”

  “Ridiculous. Your writing was excellent. I want to hear more of the tale. Tell it to me.”

  She couldn’t believe it. He was now commanding her to write. The man had no end to his gall. “I’m not about to spend the evening with my captor, entertaining him with faerie tales.”

  He kicked her chair a few inches nearer to her. In his usual arrogant manner, he said, “Sit down and spin me a tale. Tell me more about this little heroine of yours. And then tomorrow, you’ll have something to write.”

  “I won’t.” She furrowed her brow and studied the books on the shelf. The subjects were about as titillating as watching Father Nolan eat cabbage soup.

  “Come. Read to me a tale that’s yet been written.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to do this. Any time spent with him was spent as a traitor to her own self-worth.

  Slowly she turned to face him. Hating herself, yet oddly grateful for the company, she lowered herself upon the seat opposite him.

  “What’s her name?”

  She knew what he meant. “Skya,” she whispered.

  “And him?” He stared at her in the firelight, his face stern and unnatural in the shadows. She felt as if summoned to perform by Cuchulain.

  “Aidan,” she whispered.

  “And where did you last leave them?”

  Ravenna touched her flushed cheeks. Her gaze was held in bondage to his. “Must I tell you?”

  “You want to tell me, my love,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. “You’re a bard. You’re a bard, though you might not know it yet.”

  She wet her lips. Hesitant and uneasy, she began to speak.

  Skya twisted her arm, but the grip was like an iron band that grew tighter the more she struggled. Moaning, she slumped against the mud wall and felt fear trickle like cold rainwater down her spine.

  “Let go of my arm,” she whispered, frightened of his angry blue eyes.

  “It’s my turn to take you captive.” His handsome features grew taut with suppressed rage. “Do you know what it’s like living under that bridge, in the dampness? Upon my grave, I’ll never do it again.”

  “You know you can come stay in the cottage with me. But you don’t behave.” She tugged on her arm.

  He held fast, yet admirably refrained from hurting her. “Behave. ’Tis laughable. One day I’ll be king of all Clancullen. I’m a prince, not your little puppy.”

  “I—I don’t want you to be my puppy.” She lowered her eyes. Her cheeks flamed. “I just want you to be kind. To like me…”

  He rolled his eyes. “Like you? You cast a spell on me, turn me into a hideous troll, throw me beneath that bridge, and you want me to like you? No mortal could ever like a witch such as you.”

  “But there was that one night.”

  Her answer seemed to make him pause, as if he, too, were remembering. The expression in his eyes grew dark and distant. His jaw flexed as if he were grinding his teeth. “It was storming that night. Sometimes I don’t believe it even happened.”

  “It did,” she whispered, wishing she could again put her arms around his hard, bulky chest and lie with him on her pallet of straw.

  “Then you put a spell on me and made me do it,” he said crossly.

  “But you know I didn’t.” She put her hand out in supplication.

  “Witch,” he muttered as if it were the most terrible name he could call her.

  “I didn’t want to be a witch. Does that make a difference?”

  “No. You’re a witch, and the fact that you don’t have straggly gray hair and warts all over your nose makes me think that you hold a spell over your appearance.” He grabbed a heavy hank of gold hair and pulled her gently down to him. “You see my true self. Now show me yours.”

  “You see it,” she confessed in low tones.

  “I don’t believe you.” He let go of her hair and ran his fingertips across her cheek, down her slim nose. “You’re too beautiful. No ugly, vile, wart-nosed witch could look like you.”

  “If you talk that way to me again, I’ll turn you back into a troll.” She twisted her arm to be free once more, but he held her in a vise. Meeting his gaze, she wondered if he ever knew how much he hurt her. His sarcasm wounded like Toledo swords.

  “If you ever turn me back into a troll, so help me God, there’s not a man in the kingdom who would blame me if I killed you.”

  She gave him a hurt-filled glance. “Why must you say such things?”

  “Why must you hold me here? Why must you keep me as a troll?”

  He leaned toward her like a stalker.

  She leaned back, terrified.

  “If you ever turn me again into that beast, I’ll—”

  He never finished. The prince was gone.

  “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I swear I will!” The troll squealed, jumping up and down in the corner.

  Skya stood and rubbed her sore arm. She hadn’t wanted the troll to return, but the prince had frightened her with his black, angry looks. Instinct just drove her sometimes, as it had done with the dragon. She wished Aidan could understand that and quit frightening her.

  Her gaze settled on the troll. The prince made a better sight than the ugly little ogre, but Aidan’s strength was far more fearful than his.

  “Begone, then. Back t
o your bridge.”

  “I won’t! I won’t!” The troll bunched his little fists and waved them impotently at her.

  She hurled the worst kind of insult. She laughed. “Begone. Go back to your damp, dark bridge.”

  The troll quit jumping. He stood staring at her with sad, dumb eyes.

  “So you don’t like that bridge, do you? You’d like to stay here, by the fire.” She walked to her hearth and stirred something in a black cauldron. “I’ve mead—and honeycakes. My friend the old owl from the hazel tree even brought me a rabbit for my supper.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Prince Aidan, You’re welcome to return, if you behave.”

  The troll clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head. The picture of contrition.

  She laughed again. Another evening with him was exactly her heart’s desire. When she had brought him from the bridge that terrible rainy night, Aidan had spoken of his father, and war, and kingdoms. Gently, he had held her because, she suspected, the darkness under the bridge was just as lonely as the comfort of the cottage. In the rain, there was nowhere to flee. She offered him mead and honeycakes then, and he’d eaten enough for a battalion. And then, chilled from the rain and so far from civilization she supposed he’d half—given up on ever seeing another human again, he’d pulled her to the pallet, and made ferocious love to her until they were both sticky and satiated. They fell asleep in the dying firelight.

  She awoke alone.

  It had taken her all day to find him. Magic towed him back to the cottage; betrayal put him back underneath the bridge. But nothing had repaired her broken heart. There was no ocean great enough to hold all the tears she had cried. In the throes of passion, she had told him she loved him. And he had run from her as if she were—as if she were—a witch.

  Her eyes grew sad. She looked at the troll and bit her soft lower lip. “Perhaps I better not be so foolish. Perhaps you’d better go back to the bridge.”

  As if the creature were a child, he grabbed a small three-legged stool and sat in the corner, head bowed, hands folded. He was so homely and pitiful, she could almost forget he was an ogre of her own creation, not of God’s.