My knee cracks and I whimper at my stiffness as I move, but I manage not to wake the guards. I take another, then another, and another, each time getting faster and more balanced. I am almost to the door. I creep past the guard by the dresser and try not to make the floor boards creak by stepping lightly. I take one step too lightly and realize toes first were not in my favor. I feel my foot lock and my head spins too fast for me to recover. I brace myself and close my eyes tight as I fall. I hit the ground with a thump and I hear one of the guards standing.
“Ms. Orange!”
I turn ready to try to rise, but the man is already kneeling beside me, and his hands reach out to find a way to pick me up. I see the other guard who had been by the door come to the other’s shoulder and my stomach cramps up. Why had I even thought I could make it? Before I can protest or tell them I am alright, I am lifted to my feet and they each stable me until the other gets his arm about my shoulders. They begin to carry me to the bunk. I want to tell them to drop me, to leave me here on the ground where I can feel the full-fledged cold and truth of my present circumstance, but I know that this would only be more shameful towards Nadeje than letting this man assist me.
He gently lowers me onto the bed and as soon as I am down turns away and speaks to the other. “Tell Sir Orange she is awake…”
It is in a different Dutch dialect than I am used to using, but I make it out.
His companion leaves with a nod and he turns back to me. “You do not try to get up without us. It hurts you if you are not physically ready.”
It is a command, with the stance of working under my vader. I only half absorb it, not promising to follow it.
He reaches out a hand to feel my temperature and I wince at his touch. He seems dismissive and moves it away. He reaches for a pillow and props me up a bit so that I am not laying the same as before. When finished, he turns and walks off into the room, and waits by the door for his friend to return.
There is the thudding of boots on wood and I hear the echo down the hall as it grows nearer. I am trying to think of an excuse for rising on my own for my vader, but as I see the figure enter through the door, all ideas vanish like they were never there. I feel my pulse skip a beat and stare at the individual standing not even 20 feet from me.
Zenith.
I feel my breath gradually come back to me, and my chest trembles with every rise and fall. He is unchanged, it seems, by the commotion from before, apart from a new red bruise running from his hairline down the side of his face to his jaw. It makes me want to disappear beneath the sheets, the scar of a thin cut also shining in the faint light. The expression on his face is not as deadly as I had thought it would be, but also not kind. It is dull yet seems to know something I don’t, which only makes me want to hide more.
He remains watching me from a distance as though taking a casual visit, but his face shrouds something dark. I see the strength in his shoulders and the healing given by the medics on deck, and his whole demeanor tells me he is ready for another fight.
Seeing me not starting a conversation, he looks to the ground a moment and then steps forward. I tense a little and grow rigid under the sheets, and I unconsciously hold my bandaged hand in the other, protecting it. He stalks to the bed side table where he stops, facing me. My limbs feel like they are made of liquid. My fingers tighten on my hand as he reaches out and fondles a piece of a rag on the table beside me.
“You are healed,” it is not a question, but a gentle statement. He turns and looks into my face. “You were supposedly very sick with blood loss only a few hours ago…it is lightening on me to see you better.”
I do not respond; a third of me senseless, a third of me angered, and a third of me fearful.
He searches my eyes for something and I resent it as he seems curious. “You are to be a great deal of care.” His words are soft and sound close to a smile.
I feel my toes tingle in warning of the mixed message in it.
“Do you understand me?”
I do not answer him.
He gentles. “Lyra, I aim to take what I have been granted. You are my token of reputation. I do not wish to make you tolerate more than courtship before you heal fully. I am aware that you are unhappy, but will do my best to comfort you when there is need…I am willing to take care of our blemishes for us.”
I would have let him comfort me, would have let him love me, but I can’t; not now or ever. Not after Nadeje. The thoughts of his words are affectionate and sweet, tempting almost, but I know Nadeje is willing to fight too, and that I am only makes the opposition stronger.
He sets his hand in front of him and fondles the sheets a moment. It does not scare me, but makes me worry that he intends to court me right here and now. It gives me only a second to think of refusal before it is too late. He looks up to me and glances at my profile a moment, as though to keep in check my emotions or sickness.
“I hope you agree with my strategy.” It is questioning but not at the same time.
I swallow. It takes me seconds to respond, but somehow I do. “No,” it is soft and small.
He does not seem angered. “Under what terms?”
I feel my throat tighten. “Such that I cannot agree to any proposition of you becoming anything more…than what you are to me now.”
His face darkens. “That is?”
I hear the sheets crinkle in his fingers as they pinch. It takes all of me to speak it. “Not what you wish it to be.”
He clenches his jaw. “You are not being specific.”
I release my hands and set them on my stomach. “You are being too fast.”
He softens a bit to the come back, and seems to mistake it for something of more meaning. I watch him and wish to scoot away as he carefully sits down on the edge of the bed and faces me. It takes a moment as he watches me, but slowly his hand travels over the comforter. I reach my hand out and grip the top of the sheets, pulling them up a bit and trying not to look frightened, but I know it is no use. His hand coasts over the blanket, and slowly, his palm grazes over to top of my wounded hand. I do not move, unable to think of what to do.
Feeling my stillness as I do not protest, he gently curves his fingers around my hand, and takes it back on the journey to himself. He looks down onto it and turns it palm up and cups it, observing its state and the bandage. He lays his other hand over it and pets it lightly, still not looking to me. I am staring at him, with mixed feelings of horror and confusion at the nervous flutters I feel inside at his actions. He fiddles with the bandage a moment, then stops and slowly his gaze returns to me.
My heart beats twice its normal speed and I can’t calm it. I hate it, curse it, and can only think of how Nadeje would feel if he knew I had not pulled away yet.
Zenith’s eyes are a lighter brown in the dim lighting, and burn softly with secrets. I pause…secrets…I remember Nadeje’s tender handling of me not a few hours ago and the moist kisses and soft breathes to me…the openness…I watch Zenith as he does me and I feel the difference…With Nadeje there had been no secrets.
He turns my hand in his and looks to it. “Someone bandaged it well,” he says it gently, kindly, warmth vibrating in his tone.
I do not tell him who. Nor shall I tell him by whose blade it was that I was hurt firstly.
He looks at me and I feel his pulse through his hands. It is faster, more pronounced and energetic than Nadeje’s. “You are awake, are you not?”
I feel his fingertips hint beneath the ridge of the wool and feel a little exposed and wish to draw back. He feels it and strokes it gently, causing my blood to freeze.
When I still do not answer he looks down to my hand again. “Shall I let you rest?”
I do not recall him ever asking to interrupt my rest in the first place.
Seeing the blankness on my face he begins to move. “I shall.”
Before I can get back my hand though, he bends low and, lifting it, kisses the knuckles. He sets it down carefully and rises.
I feel my cheeks unwantedly flame up and blush at his impropriety. He looks to me and I feel myself make every single bad judgment upon him until I see the willingness to learn in his eyes. He starts to turn away, just as my vader arrives in the door.
I wish to blurt to him that it is not as he might think, but know to hold my tongue after everything that has happened if I wish to learn anything of Nadeje. Sir Orange once more heads forward and Zenith restarts his walk out the room. As they pass each other, I sense the exchange of success in their expression. I intend to eradicate any living flicker of success in the area they communicate in.
He comes close enough to the bed that I can reach him and stops and reaches to the cloth on the bedside table. “Lyra,” it is soft.
I watch him as he lightly trails the cloth in a clean bowl of water in his hand and reaches to wipe it across my forehead. It soothes me and cools my head after my heated interaction with Zenith, and I am grateful. He sets it aside after he seems finished, and to my heart’s further weakening, he takes the hand Zenith had just released.
“You are better?”
I do not need to hide it from him, so I nod.
He searches my eyes for answers and, finding none, speaks his mind. “You fell again, without any warning to the guards you wished to move…do not do this again…you could get hurt worse,” I hear the sincerity in his voice and know he cares.
“I was…just…trying by myself.”
He gives me a look. “I rose from a bed fever myself not long ago. I did not try by myself. Headstrong girl, just like your moeder…and me, I must admit.”
I almost wish to smile, but my mind ventures elsewhere.
“You are still weak then?” His hand is tighter on mine.
“Not terribly,” my voice sounds distant, and I do not put much thought to the words.
He reaches for my attention. “Lyra?”
I look to him, granting him this much.
He squeezes my hand. “Zenith…has he…?”
I look away.
“Lyra, look at me. It is not appropriate dear.”
I hear the gentleness in his voice, and it is the only thing bringing me back.
“You are my daughter, you can share with me.”
I swallow and think of all the times he had said that. When moeder used to scorn me when I was coming of the age for womanhood, I used to run off and hide if she was yelling. Somehow, in the end that he would always find me. Multiple times he would tell me that nothing should come between us so that we would hold secrets, and then he disappeared on me, leaving me to hold all of my own. I had been frightened without him for so long and now he had come back. For how long though, and for what other reason than Leyden’s freedom?
I look up into kind eyes, aging and full of secrets of their own. I know he is earnest. “Where is he?”
A moment ticks by between us, and the connection through our adjoined hands is broken for a time. He sees who I mean.
“Vader?”
“He is kept somewhere safe.”
I look at him pleadingly. “No secrets…”
He watches me. “He is not hurt…”
I implore. “I cannot share with you unless you do me…”
“Lyra.”
“Vader, I…”
“Lyra, you are ill.”
I snatch back my hand. “He will become so too!”
His hands lie empty on the bed and he does not move them from their place. “You of all people should know hardships are a part of life.”
I swallow. “It isn’t fair. You can’t just take him like that…he is another human being…”
“It is not in my power to change the ways of the world Lyra.” His eyes are thrashing and stormy, severe. “He is contradicted and loathed by every Dutch in our home. He would most likely be killed as payment and revenge for what happened by the hands of his people. It is better if we make it short for him, not long and painful…It would be a gift.”
I stare at him. If we make it short for him? A gift? I am too horrified by his words to move. “You haven’t sentenced…”
He stands rigid but upright. “I gave him options and time before it will happen.”
I look at him frightfully. “Options…”
“Not including you.”
The words are like daggers, gently sliding themselves under my skin where they burn. “Tell me what you told him…”
“I said nothing of any kind yet…apart from that he will remain here for longer while we set up the consequences. Regardless of his choice, be it death or labor, he will be punished.”
It stabs deeper. “Zenith is not…”
“Not what? Not Spanish? Your Spaniard is no better than he is…”
“Nadeje.”
He stops. “Beg your pardon?”
“His name is Nadeje Gilch,” I love saying his name, I almost repeat it. I do not however, for I already am in misfortune for interrupting him.
“Mr. Gilch then, is no better than…”
“He is better for me…maybe not for you…but he is for me.” It comes out firm and without hesitation.
He looks into my eyes with something like assurance. “You were never so tight with any other topic than marriage…you chose with your moeder that you wished to marry Zenith and now…”
I look away. “Let me be with him,” it is quiet.
“I do not understand you.”
I look up. “Let me be with Nadeje,” it is almost a demand, an order.
He grows firm. “You are not to speak with me as though I am the lesser, Lyra.”
I sit straighter. “You don’t think I know what I say to you?”
He is angered now. “Lyra Orange,” it is warning.
I look away. “Don’t call me that.”
He is heated. “Excuse me?”
I turn on him again, holding my ground. “We could leave…go to Spain where he would be safer.”
He stares at me, seeming distracted now by the change in topic. “Without my consent?”
I look at him without any other diversions now. “If necessary to win the argument then yes, if unnecessary then no.”
He bites down. “Lyra, you are being irrational.”
I keep eye contact, though it is becoming hard. “And you cruel.”
He sounds flustered. “Lyra you are birthed into a heritage…a pure line of births that no one should ever ruin.” It is strong, too strong. “Do not make me have to force you.”
I look away now, the tears blocking my throat as they rise. I am hugging myself slightly, only having myself to hold onto now. “You do not love me then? Not enough to care for who I love?”
He grits his teeth. “I must keep the family within line.”
“My moeder…was she in line?”
It grows silent. I feel I have reached the point of his tenderness. I hear him move away. I look up to see him leaving the room. He does not turn back, and I am afraid that it is possible I have gone too far down the road, that the road may lead to Nadeje, and in a worse manner than before.
Chapter 29
There is a knock on my door.
I do not sit up, not caring to after what has been done between all the people on this boat and me. I do not move. The door closes behind some footsteps and I lie here unobstructed. I stare at the ceiling as there is quiet.
“Ms. Orange.”
I sit up, hearing an unfamiliar voice from what I had expected. It is one of my vader’s men, one of the hands on deck in his formal clothes and black slender boots. I wait for him to speak again, not wanting to use my throat for more than necessary.
“I have come to announce the period of time tomorrow when activities will take place.” He bows stiffly, and avoids my gaze. “There is to be breakfast at eight o’clock, and afterwards there is to be a whipping assemblage on deck. Then we will move to the city for the rest of this week. You are entitled to be at all events, and are invited to a whole house dinner with your vader and his conference.”
; He spoke so swiftly that I could not catch everything.
I got the basics, but could not understand. “Elaborate on the whipping assemblage,” I order softly.
He bows his head. “Thirty lashes to the punished, Ms. Orange. I know not how else to explain the gathering.”
My heart has stopped. Everything has stopped. My whole life has stopped with those words. Thirty lashes. I go hollow inside. I feel winded and brain dead, as well as nauseous. It could kill him. I feel the bed around me for the first time in the past thirty seconds of silence. I can’t move.
“Will that be all?”
His voice slices into me, and though meant as respect, I feel it as reverse.
“No.”
He waits for me to instruct him but I hadn’t spoken in response to his inquire, it had been from my own shock, my own bewilderment at what was actually happening.
I make myself look at him. “Go,” it is soft.
He bows and I look away, not watching him as he closes the door. The moment he is gone, I feel empty. The room is silent, and my soul is quieted. I have nothing. Nothing. Not even tears can deliver me release or pain now. I have nothing, want nothing, and see nothing. The core of me has shifted, and all I can feel is empty. I lie back down and let myself be still.
Chapter 30
The next morning I do not wake up. I didn’t sleep and I didn’t eat the food brought to me or go to the dinner to which I was invited. I just stared at objects; furniture, the ceiling, my hands, my bandage. I saw everything as it was, apart from the internal anguish ready to be unleashed into madness as it is the last thing in my empty vessel.
A knock on my door serves as an order for me to begin to get ready. I don’t know why I do but I oblige to the command. I wipe down with a hot wetted washcloth and wait for assistance to change my dress. When it comes, I choose a silver dress, one of charcoal grey and silver, soft and with folds about the skirt, easily fitted and elegant. I wear it not to celebrate, but to have the air of misery and solitude, to show my desolation and make others see the stone surrounding my heart with every step I take. I place my hair back from my face for the first time in months and tie it in a loose bun, some strands softening my face by falling down beside the curve of my jaw. I do not wear a headdress, or a Dutch cap. I don’t want to. I want to rebel in that way against my birthright if nothing else. I slip on shoes and they pinch my feet with the first steps I take. I look around me at the papers still spread out. I choose not to move them, but I am certain that someone will soon throw them away, just as they have chosen to throw away my heart.
Tears of Leyden Page 27
