by Angie West
The answer seemed to satisfy her, and she walked from the room, shoulders slumped but looking less terrified than when she’d come in, and that was something, I figured. Right then, we would take any improvement that we could get, no matter how small.
The minute that we heard Sienna’s footsteps moving down the hall, and the subsequent return of normal conversation in the kitchen, both Mark and I allowed the our polite masks to fall away and proceeded to curse like sailors.
“Do you believe this?”
“That a prostitute would allow her child to be sold to the sex trade?” Mark slammed his palm against the wall. “Yeah, a real surprise.”
“I don’t know what’s more disturbing, that she sold the girl or that she was willing to work beside her, so to speak. What the hell?”
“I wish I knew, Claire. The whole thing is disgusting.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t have agreed more. “But what are we going to do now?”
“Find her mother. If we can.”
“You mean if she wants to be found,” I muttered.
“Yes.” The word was clipped.
“Okay, so what are we going to do if we find this woman?” Not that I particularly wanted to hear the answer to that question. But since Sienna was our responsibility, even temporarily, then it stood to reason we should have a plan.
“We try and get her to tell us who the girl’s father is, assuming she knows.”
“And what if this...this woman wants Sienna? What if she wants to take her away?”
“I highly doubt that’s likely to happen.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Think back to last night, Claire. When we entered the kitchen.”
“No one tried to go to Sienna.” The light dawned and my heart bled a little more for the girl.
“That’s right,” Mark said bitterly. “And from the time I picked her up to the time we arrived back here, she didn’t act as though she recognized anyone in particular.”
“And she would surely know most of the women who worked for Lydia, but if she had seen her mother, she would have tried to run to her, or call out...something.”
“Right. So it’s probably a pretty safe bet that Sienna’s mother wasn’t in the building; it’s possible she didn’t work for Lydia, then.”
“True.” I bit my lip.
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for that woman, Claire. She made her choices, just like everybody else.”
“I know, but—” But it was hard not to feel sad.
“She sold her own child,” Mark reminded me, taking hold of my arm.
“I know.” I nodded, the remorse fading a little.
“No regrets?”
“No.” I managed a smile. “I guess not.”
“You guess not?”
“None about you, anyway.” I swiftly changed the subject. “How’s that?”
“I’ll take it. For now.”
“What happens next?”
“We could get married,” he suggested casually, though his gaze was fastened on mine.
“Just like that, huh? You aren’t going to get down on one knee? Recite a poem? Something?” I teased at his blank look.
“Is that how it’s done in your world?”
“No, only in books,” I laughed, throwing both arms around his neck.
“Is that a yes?” He buried his face in my hair, inhaling long and slow and deep.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“I can recite a poem, if you still want me to,” he offered.
“Hmmm…tempting, but maybe later. What do you say we just go tell the rest of the family instead?”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we elope today?”
“Elope?” I croaked, pulling away from him. “That’s a joke, right?”
“I’m dead serious, Claire,” he murmured, tracing my bottom lip with one finger. “Let’s do it. Today. Right now.”
“But…I don’t have a dress.” The words were absurd, I knew, especially when weighed against everything else. Little insignificant things like getting married without my daughter—or my brother and sister and parents…I realized, shocked and a little shamed that it must have sounded to Mark that my loved ones had just been ousted in my personal ranking by a dress.
But Mark just slung an arm around my shoulder and laughed because, well…he knew me, I realized. Well enough to know that my family meant everything in the world—in two worlds—to me. And well enough to know when to take me seriously and when to laugh and shrug it off.
“Isn’t it…wrong…to get married without anyone there?”
“Maybe. But think what a surprise it will be for everyone when we get back.”
“Well,” I considered, longing to throw caution to the wind and just say yes, “you’ll follow me, and Ashley, everywhere?”
“We’ll never be apart, I promise you. Come on, Claire,” he whispered, low and husky. “Have an adventure with me.”
“Let’s do it,” I whispered back, and squeezed his hand. For better or for worse…
Chapter Twelve
Reprieve
We were married in the ruins in a little known, all but unfrequented spot high atop the mountain.
According to Mark—and the handful of townspeople who had insisted on accompanying the magistrate—we were standing, and would be wed, on sacred ground. Married. I was about to get married. The words whispered over and over again through my mind, a mantra that changed in tone and tempo on our way up the mountain, sometimes a constant litany and sometimes chanted silently in tune with each step taken until finally, we had reached our destination. Married...
No one knew better than I did that it was usually never too late to run if that was your best option.
But one look at the earnest hope that was plain for all to see in Mark’s eyes, and I knew that I wouldn’t turn tail and bolt—and it had nothing to do with the high probability of injuring myself or falling off the mountain in my heels should I have been tempted to run for it. Any bride would have been a little nervous to elope, right? I thought I remembered reading somewhere that the “runaway bride” that had been on the receiving end of so much media coverage several years ago in my own world had been one of those “long engagement” brides. I thought on this as the eager townspeople positioned themselves into a tight knit semi-circle around us in preparation for the ceremony. Maybe that was the difference between normal wedding jitters and fleeing from a church with an angry groom and massively confused wedding party in hot pursuit. Time. It made sense in a crazy sort of way. I mean, how many times has someone stopped in the middle of not thinking of the implications of one thing or another in order to have a change of heart? Almost never.
“Claire.”
“Hmm?” I glanced sideways at my intended.
“You’re doing it again,” he said in a tone laced with amusement.
“What?” I asked, struggling in shame to remember if he’d just asked me a pressing question, and shooting a fast look at the holy man, who, thankfully, was still arranging his ceremonial robes.
“That.” He traced a finger along my jaw. “You’re daydreaming. Not thinking of running, are you?”
“No,” I said, perhaps a bit too hastily. I hadn’t been considering it, not really. But still, once again, Mark seemed to get into my head and his question hit a little too close to home. “I was just thinking that people who elope usually don’t give themselves time to run,” I candidly admitted.
“I see.” His lips twitched briefly and he looked away, out toward the horizon off the farthest edge of the mountain ledge. “And would you run if you gave yourself enough time to think it over?” he questioned in a speculative tone.
“No.” I was truthful. “I don’t believe I would run if I had a million years to think about it.”
“Well, that’s good because you’d never make it off the side of this mountain in those shoes.”
“Mark!” I choked back the laughter and dared a glance at the magist
rate before whispering, “What about you?”
“No,” he whispered back. “I don’t think I’d make it either. Face it, Claire, we’re just not dressed for it.”
I shook my head, then linked arms with him when we were motioned forward. The ceremony was about to begin.
“Mark and Claire, you wish to be joined together?”
“Yes,” we answered.
The elderly magistrate smiled his approval and asked us to join our left hands, and then he opened an old, faded brown leather book and began to speak in a language that I could not understand. Keeping my head bowed so as not to disturb the ceremony, I peeked up and to the side, catching Mark’s eye immediately and raising one brow in question. He smiled in answer and gave my fingers a light squeeze—apparently all was well. The man before us continued reciting from the book he held open with gnarled hands. Maybe it was Terlain’s equivalent to Latin, I speculated, keeping silent. The ceremony was no less beautiful because I couldn’t understand a word the magistrate was saying, no less special because of its haste. It didn’t take long before I was swept up in the magic. I let the words flow over me and through me, and the breeze was cool and crisp and cleansing all at once. I drank it in, wishing I could freeze time, take a picture, and remember all of it forever, to be relived over and over again. Every scent, every word, every sound was committed to memory in those precious seconds.
When the magistrate fell silent, Mark and I looked up expectantly, our hands still linked together. I was pretty sure that Mark looked up because he was familiar with the marriage ritual and whatever was to come next; I looked up because the man had stopped reading from his book, and everyone else seemed to be staring at him right then. What was next? Were we supposed to say something like we would have done back home? I do? I will? Maybe even just a simple “yes?” I didn’t have the slightest clue, so I stayed silent, smiling slightly at Mark and watching for an opportunity to take his lead.
The magistrate closed the book and set it aside on the ridge next to where we stood; he took my right hand and placed it carefully in Mark’s, and an old woman from the village came to stand next to him. She held the bloom of a giant white flower in her hands and she had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. The woman cupped her hands around the blossom, clutched it tight, and raised both arms high above our heads. I leaned a little closer to Mark, uncertain, and in the next instant, the woman gave a joyous shout and opened her hands to release a burst of glitter that rained down upon our heads.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, grinning up into Mark’s face and gripping his shoulders with both hands.
“The marriage blossom,” he explained, brushing a fleck of glitter off my nose before pressing a kiss to my lips amid a backdrop of laughter and applause from our small crowd of witnesses.
“My wife,” he murmured, staying close.
“Mark…” My eyes widened. A large group was headed our way. I watched them materialize through the mist, becoming more solid with each step. Women, I finally noted, pulling away from my new husband long enough to grip his arm and turn him toward the procession. The magistrate fell silent, as did the townspeople. Even Mark watched the scene with a grim calm that was alarming.
“I don’t believe it,” he muttered, moving to stand in front of me.
“Mark?” I whispered, straining to see the women in black over his shoulder. They were closer now, almost upon us, but their faces were mostly obscured by the dark cloaks they were all garbed in. “Who are those women?” Visions of jealous old girlfriends danced absurdly in my head and I smothered the urge to laugh. Judging by the anxious, half-fearful expressions on the townspeople’s faces behind us, the situation was nothing to joke about.
“I think they’re the Matrons.”
“The Matrons,” I breathed, reverent and excited all at once. “Wait.” I frowned. “You think?”
“No one that I know of has ever seen them in person like this,” he explained, still radiating tension.
“Oh.” I couldn’t believe it. “Well, are they violent?” I asked, though from everything I had read last year in my brother’s notes, they weren’t reported to be.
“Not that I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, then quit blocking me!” I demanded, darting around his shoulder to stand next to him. “I want to see too.”
“Get behind me, Claire.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You might get hurt.”
“You just said they aren’t violent.”
“There’s always a first time for everything,” he insisted, trying to shove me behind his back once more.
“Stop,” the tallest black-cloaked woman intoned.
“See?” I muttered to my irate husband. “She told you.” As far as I was concerned, these Matrons were all right.
“Damn it, Claire,” he whispered furiously before falling silent.
“Shut up. You’re being rude,” I whispered back.
“Be silent, both of you!” the magistrate pleaded quietly from somewhere behind us.
There were twelve of them and they stood in two rows of six. I gasped when, as one, they all reached back to lower the hoods of their cloaks. All were older, but still very beautiful, and all had long bright hair that reminded me of liquid silver. They all wore identical expressions of calm efficiency that probably would have been downright scary had I not already been somewhat familiar with them; as it was, their unflappable statures and silence was still very much unnerving, but I stood tall and proud next to Mark, vaguely aware of him doing the same thing beside me. What were they doing at our wedding, of all places? Not that I wasn’t honored, but the Matrons were basically the ultimate high council of Terlain, though from what I could tell, they often deigned not to interfere with the people of Terlain. They had been notably absent during the most recent uprising of Kahn and his men, yet here they were at my wedding?
Somehow, I doubted it was a social call that brought the reclusive Matrons to the mountain, to us.
“There was a wedding here today.” The middle one spoke in a clear voice.
“There was.” I smiled at her, hoping that they couldn’t tell how nervous I felt. “You just missed it. You’re the Matrons, aren’t you?”
They nodded. “And you’re Claire Roberts.”
I nodded in return, feeling the anxiety bloom larger than the enormous wedding flower—hopefully, I wouldn’t explode in a flurry of glitter, although right at that moment I felt like anything was possible. So they knew me on sight. The Matrons had come to talk to me then. I felt the tension flowing from Mark in waves and his almost imperceptible shift toward me, and knew that I was correct in my assumption.
“You’ve come for me,” I stated, deciding to take the bull by the horns and just come out with it, get it over with.
“We’ve come to see the woman who’s caused so much talk in our world—and the man.” They spoke as one, perfectly in sync with one another. “It’s good to meet the Warrior of the Ruins. You’ve done well. The evil one’s flame is almost extinguished now.”
“Kahn?” I asked, addressing the question to the woman who stood front and center. She was the only one who had spoken without the others, so I felt safe in assuming she played some sort of leadership role within the group, though it was impossible to be certain without knowing more about their infrastructure.
“His army is all but obliterated,” the leader informed us. “The few that remain alive have scattered to the forests to run and hide.”
“The beasts still run rampant,” Mark countered, seeming somewhat less anxious.
“Yes,” the woman agreed. “There is much yet to be done.”
“The fences have failed,” Mark pointed out, his expression grim.
“Yes.”
“Why? I—we, the people of Terlain—thought the spell you cast on them was iron-clad, permanent. Can you tell us what happened?”
“Perhaps it was time for the people to fight,” she answered.
“But what about Kahn h
imself?” I boldly voiced the question before Mark could say something unwise about the countless lives that were lost, the villages that were heavily damaged or even destroyed. Kahn’s destruction covered a wide swath, and we were still trying to get an accurate body count.
“He’s gone to ground. For now.”
I sensed her response was deliberately cryptic and, more importantly, that she wouldn’t say anything more on the subject. Still, I had to try to glean what information I could from them. After all, it wasn’t likely that we would have a better chance, not with the Matrons anyway.
“He is still a formidable enemy. Although you’re safe for now, it won’t always be so. You must be ready.”
“Now when you say it won’t always be so…” I wet my lips. “Are we talking next week or next month, or maybe, say, twenty years from now?” I asked hopefully.
“Claire,” Mark sighed.
“Right. Sorry.” I bit my lip. “We’ll be ready for him, whenever that time comes.”
“We will stand against him,” Mark agreed, straightening his shoulders.
The woman inclined her head, the barest hint of a smile on her pale lips.
“Can you reinforce the fences?” I asked, almost afraid to hear her answer.
“Perhaps at some point.”
“Oh,” I said, momentarily deflated.
“You have both done very well for the people of Terlain,” she said, bringing us back to the original reason for their visit.
“Thank you.” Mark and I acknowledged the high honor with words that somehow seemed woefully inadequate.
“And thank you for coming here, on our wedding day, to congratulate us. It is an honor that we do not take lightly,” Mark assured the women.
“This is not the only reason why we have come here on this day.” The woman’s eyes zeroed in on me.
“Oh?” Mark queried.
“We’ve come to warn her.”
“Me?” I uttered stupidly. Like they could have meant anyone else.
