by Jory Strong
"No. Help your mother."
He left and she did as he'd requested, afterward retreating to her room.
It was a small space, easily kept tidy. Stopping at her desk, she brushed her fingertips over the row of books that were her most prized possessions.
On a shelf above them was a collection of animal figurines. Most were dogs, including one that looked like Tomas's deerhound and another that looked like the terrier who'd given birth to five puppies.
In her thoughts, she followed her father into the workshop, opened the cabinet and then the hidden door. Rather than him entering the tunnel, she pictured Josiah stepping into the workplace, and saying, "I've come for your daughter."
Her heart bumped against her ribs. "Foolish, foolish heart," she whispered. But there was no reasoning with it, no understanding why it wanted the warlord, except maybe because the wall separated them, providing a barrier against betrayal and hurt.
The pigeon probably meant that the warlord had a greater demand for the ingredients that could only be synthesized in New San Jose. Or maybe there'd been an outbreak of disease in the warrens and he needed information or medicine.
Too restless to stay in the small space that was usually a refuge, and too frugal to waste candles lighting the room when the front room would be well lit by oil lanterns, Ella selected a book on plants and joined her mother and Victoria.
Victoria was working on a blue creation with delicate white collar and buttons. Stopping next to the couch where her sister sat, Ella said, "Once the elite see one of your dresses, they'll be lining up to buy your designs."
Victoria's mouth tightened. The blue eyes they'd both inherited from their mother held disdain. "Sew for the elite and I'll never be anything more than a servant."
Ella had no response to that. She sat on a chair that matched the deep gold of the couch. Opening the book, she turned to the section containing the names and uses of plants that might be found in the wild lands beyond the warrens.
Time crept past. Enough of it to know that her father had entered the tunnel and traveled its length to the building where it ended in Josiah's territory.
Their business wouldn't take long, it never did. He'd be on his way back now, well past the place where the tunnel ran beneath the railway near the border between Jax's territory and Josiah's.
Victoria set the dress aside. "My hands hurt."
Habit and the desire to be there when their father emerged from the tunnel had Ella saying, "I can get some pain cream from the workshop."
"I don't want that oily stuff. It makes me smell like a laborer." Victoria tapped the toe of a polished dark blue shoe to a spot on the floor in front of her. "You can sit here and give me a massage."
"No."
"Ella," their mother said, the disapproval in her voice shrinking Ella's heart.
"I offered to get the jar of cream."
"The scent is offensive. Not only that, but your sister won't be able to work on her party dress without fear of ruining it. Her success will mean more opportunity for you."
Hating herself, Ella gave in, as she always did, though she didn't kneel in front of her sister. She pushed the coffee table away from the couch, creating additional space.
She sat and took her sister's hand between hers. Their mother set aside the light green sweater she was knitting, left the room and returned with a hairbrush.
Stopping behind the couch, she gathered Victoria's golden-blonde hair and brushed, shriveling Ella's heart further. Not once had her mother ever brushed her hair.
Ella ducked her head, refused to let the burn in her throat climb into her eyes. One day I'll have a home of my own. I'll have children I love equally. I'll have a husband who…
Love was almost too much to hope for. But if he trusted her, respected her, cared for her…
Couldn't that be enough?
Her own hands hurt by the time her father entered the house through the kitchen door. She dropped Victoria's hand and returned to the chair, putting the book on her lap.
Her father entered the front room and immediately she knew something was wrong. He looked as if he'd aged a dozen years. His gaze lingered on Victoria then moved to her before settling on their mother, his expression grim.
Her mother's hand tightened on the hairbrush. The other fell away from Victoria's hair to grip the back of the couch. "What did he want?"
Ella's heart thumped its way into her throat. Rarely did her parents talk about her father's dealings with the warlord, at least not in her hearing, and never in Victoria's.
She didn't know what Victoria guessed or had figured out. Their parents had always tried to shield Victoria from the risk that came with knowledge of the tunnel and the smuggling.
"What did he want?" her mother asked again.
"To marry Ella. It's to happen day after tomorrow."
"Me?" Ella's hands tightened on the book. Her heart beat too hard, too fast. Her skin flushed, only to become chilled before flushing again.
Despite the foolish dreams and hopes, the warlord could have any woman he wanted. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Who wants to marry Ella?" Victoria asked, dismissal in her tone.
Their father's expression turned harsh. "Until this is done, you can't speak of it outside the house, do you understand, Victoria?"
Victoria's eyes widened. Their father didn't often speak firmly or harshly to her.
She nodded and he said, "Josiah. One of the warlords."
Victoria jumped to her feet. "This will ruin me!"
Their mother placed her hands on Victoria's shoulders and urged her back onto the couch. "It can be overcome. I don't think your father was given a choice in the matter."
Victoria's lips twisted. "Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Why does he want her?"
"She'll make the warlord a good wife," their father said, and pulled a silver pillbox from his pocket with a shaky hand. Stared at it then stuffed the box back in his pocket, the action telling Ella he'd already taken a dose of the medicine he used when his heart beat fast and erratically. "It's been agreed to. It'll be done day after tomorrow."
Ella stood and hugged the book to her chest. "I'm going to the workshop."
She fled the house rather than let them see her hope—or the fear that Josiah would change his mind. She fled to hide her doubt, her worry that he wanted her for a reason other than desire.
They'd never spoken, never been introduced. The few times he'd seen her, she'd been helping with potions that couldn't be left unattended during critical phases.
But he'd looked at her with heat in his eyes. She hadn't imagined it. It wasn't wishful thinking.
Goose bumps pebbled her skin though the night was warm. She stopped in front of the pigeon coop.
With trembling hands, she removed a canister from the feed compartment, opened the coop and scattered the seeds, making sure the bird that had arrived earlier received some of the treat.
It pecked as furiously as her heart beat. If she and her father were alone, she would have asked exactly what was said. If there'd been any clues in the warlord's manner.
She blushed at imagining trying to find out if her father had seen desire in Josiah's dark gaze. Put the canister back in the feed compartment and let herself into the workshop.
She lit a lantern and carried it to her workbench. The light wasn't strong enough to extend beyond the immediate area in front of her chair, but it didn't matter. She'd be afraid to do serious work. She was too distracted by her father's news.
"Josiah," she whispered, imagining herself saying it as her hands swept over his broad chest. Imagining his deep, husky voice saying her name as his gaze swept over her naked body.
She hadn't thought he knew her name. But…
It had mattered to him enough to learn it. And she'd mattered enough to marry.
She stared at the flame flickering in the lantern. Its weak heat reminded her of the nights Griffin had stopped by the works
hop to pick up a medicine she'd made for him.
She'd wanted to see heat in his eyes after their stolen kisses, wanted to feel she was on the verge of being consumed by a raging fire. She'd settled for admiration. She'd thought she'd be content as his wife.
It'd made sense that they'd eventually marry, given her knowledge and skills when it came to creating potions and tinctures and salves. And she'd accepted that she wasn't a woman to inspire the kind of passion she longed for, that a man would look at her and see she'd be a good partner, a good helper.
She pressed trembling fingertips against a glass beaker, its dark green contents still undergoing a chemical reaction.
Fierce heat radiated through the glass and into her fingers. It traveled up her arm, adding to the warmth already blossoming in her chest.
Josiah was power and passion. That he hadn't been able to get her off his mind, the same as her thoughts had repeatedly returned to him… That he'd demanded to marry her…
Ella pulled her hand away from the beaker and hugged herself. In two days, she'd be Josiah's bride.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Ella woke to the sound of roosters crowing. The first one to announce the new day was their black rooster, from the pen that ran along the left side of the workshop.
Their neighbor's yellow rooster added his voice. And then the white one down the street.
The sound of her mother in the kitchen drifted in along with the scent of cooking bacon. Ella sat and looked around the tiny room. It would become Victoria's sewing room.
It was easy to imagine her sister in here, their mother knitting in a chair as they talked about upcoming parties and marriageable men. Would they ever comment on her absence? Would they ever ask how she was doing in Josiah's warren or if there was a child on the way?
Ella rubbed the place above her heart. It was better not to dwell on those questions. Once she and Victoria had been close, but that was a long time ago. And the only time her mother had ever looked at her with warmth and approval had been when Griffin was coming around.
I'll be gone from here tomorrow. If she reentered the city at all while married to Josiah, it'd be through the tunnel, and the workshop would be as far as she could go without the risk of being seen or taken hostage by Merati.
Her mother never set foot in either the warrens or the workshop. Victoria did, but rarely.
Ella got up and went to the narrow closet. She chose a drab brown dress. It would be appropriate for a visit to the borough Peace Force station.
She put the dress on, ran her hands over the rough material. Victoria had sketchbooks full of pictures of wedding gowns, but even when Ella thought she might one day marry Griffin, she'd not imagined herself in a fancy white gown and a veil stitched with pearls.
Gathering the best of her dresses, she returned to the bed and laid them out side by side. They were all functional, with multiple pockets.
All of them had at least one stain. Most had at least half a dozen. Between working in the marketplace and in the workshop, and assisting when her father treated people in their homes, it was impossible to avoid stains.
The dresses were all old. It didn't make sense to care about getting new ones, and she'd rather spend her money on books or ingredients for her experiments.
Not one of the dresses was beautiful. A couple of them had once been pretty, but even those were functional and downplayed her curves.
She blinked away the burn in her eyes at imagining marrying Josiah in one of these dresses. Swallowed against the ache that spread from her chest to her throat.
There was no time to have a real wedding dress made. She didn't know much about ceremonies in the warrens, wasn't even sure that marriage existed in the majority of them. But there was an elegant ruthlessness to Josiah. She'd thought the few times she heard him talking with her father that he was a man who was proud of what he'd accomplished and how he ruled his territory.
It seemed likely that a wedding ceremony in his warren would be similar to the ones held in the boroughs. That their marriage vows would be said before an oath minister and entered into a record book.
The fanciest and least damaged of the dresses was dark green. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Colors held meaning in the warrens. Josiah's color was blue. Green belonged to a neighboring warlord, Jax.
Her gaze shifted to the least damaged of the blue dresses. It was the same deep blue as the one Victoria was making for the party. But where that dress was delicate and beautiful, this one had been plain to begin with and was now ugly.
A line of mismatched buttons marched from collar to waist because she was too frugal to replace them all after losing only a couple. The pockets had been mended with thread that was either black or a different shade of blue because she'd used what she had on hand. There was a small stain at the shoulder, but still, the dress could be made more attractive by someone with talent.
She stepped into her shoes and went to the kitchen. Her mother glanced at her but didn't chide her for being slow to start morning chores.
Snagging a wicker basket off a hook on the wall, Ella went to the chicken coop. A dozen black hens clucked a scolding.
She opened the door and they surged past her in a squawking rush toward the garden.
She entered the coop, shooed the remaining birds out of their boxes. Collected the eggs and after checking the pigeons, returned to the kitchen.
Her father and Victoria were both sitting at the table. She set the basket on the counter next to her mother. Washed her hands and carried plates loaded with bacon and toast to the table.
Today Victoria wore a coral-colored dress with a tight waist and delicate straps. It accentuated her skin tones and made her look elegant.
But then, she could put on one of my dresses, Ella thought as she took her place at the table, and she'd still turn heads with her beauty.
Victoria was thinner, taller, her breasts larger. But they weren't so much different in size that something of hers couldn't be made to work.
Ache spasmed across Ella's chest at the prospect of asking a favor of her sister. Victoria had never been one to share even a cast-off, but maybe, maybe…
Their mother brought a plate loaded with scrambled eggs to the table. They served themselves.
Ella's palms dampened. Her stomach shrunk, making it impossible to eat.
She set her fork down, and feeling exposed, said, "I'd like something nice to wear tomorrow. I was wondering if one of Victoria's old dresses…"
Victoria's head snapped up. "No. You know how expensive and hard to get the material is. You know I reuse it."
Ella rubbed her palms against the brown dress. The ache in her chest widened but the desire to stand in front of Josiah and not be ashamed of how she looked stripped her of pride. "I think one of my dresses could be made prettier. Could you—"
"No."
Their father lowered his fork. His voice was heavy with disapproval when he said, "Victoria—"
"Victoria has other obligations today, Elliot," their mother said. "Obligations that require her time and attention. It will reflect badly on her and hinder her chances for taking her rightful place in society if she doesn't attend to them. Ella is going into the warrens. It's bad enough—"
"Patricia."
Something passed between their parents.
Their mother stood and left the room. Victoria followed.
Her stomach tighter, Ella picked up her fork and speared it into the scrambled eggs on her plate. "When will we go to the Peace Force station?"
"After the noon meal. I've got appointments until then."
"Do you need my help?"
"No. Pack your things and get ready for tomorrow."
"I'd like to take the projects I'm working on and some of the medicines I've made."
He nodded.
She forced herself to eat and they finished breakfast in silence.
Ella stood, reached for her sister's plate, intendin
g to carry the dirty dishes to the sink as she did every morning—and stopped.
It was petty, but…
She left the kitchen and the chore behind. Went into her room and looked again at the dresses on the bed.
The blue dress was just as plain and ruined as it had been earlier, but she wasn't willing to abandon her idea, or the hope of looking good for Josiah. Picking up the dress, she hustled to the workshop.
What coins she had were in a square brown jar with a skull and cross bones painted in white on the front. She took the jar off the shelf above her workstation and unscrewed the top.
Pouring the contents onto her desk, silver mixed with copper. She divided the coins equally, pocketed half of them and put what remained back in the jar.
There were spare market crates beneath one of the back tables. She used five of them. Packed the items on her workstation along with the jar of coins and various medicines taken from the cabinets.
When it was done, her throat and chest tightened at seeing her workstation cleared. Her eyes stung. Until that moment she hadn't thought what it would mean to leave. In this room she was useful, talented, valued, at least by her father.
From the very first she'd been fascinated by his work. She'd clambered to go with him rather than remain in the house learning to cook and sew and knit.
Wiping away the tears, she banished the sense of loss with the image of the warlord. She took a canister containing the medicine the widow Katherine needed from a cabinet. Then from another cabinet, took a small bottle of the tincture she used on the calico cat.
Her father came into the workshop. Their eyes met, and in his, she thought she saw regret before he turned away.
"You'll send my things through the tunnel?"
"After you're married."
Ache returned with the possibility that she would enter the warrens alone tomorrow. "Will you be there, at the ceremony?"
"With your mother."
"She wants to attend?" Ella asked, hating the hope in her voice.
There was a heartbeat of hesitation before he said, "Of course."
