by TARA GALLINA
A new scent touches my nose. Cloves. Mmm. Mother used to make clove-flavored tea. It’s my favorite, especially when paired with molasses cookies. I sniff the air, trying to determine its source. Is it coming from him? He’s so close I can feel the heat from his body.
“What are you doing?” he asks, giving me permission to speak.
I could clap with joy. “Smelling you and reliving a memory of my mother.” I lean closer, breathing him in. “Delicious.”
It sounds like he’s stumbling away from me.
I reach out to help him, grabbing only air. “Are you all right?”
He clears his throat. “I’m fine. Save your words before you’re punished for them. You shouldn’t be talking or sniffing me. You should be frightened. You are to meet her tonight. You are to deliver an item of clothing to a person who’s Fated to Die. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Of course, it bothers me.” My blood heats. “Everything about this bothers me. I can’t see. I can’t speak. I have no idea what to expect tonight, if I can pass all that is required without breaking any rules, or if I can survive to see my family again.”
The last thought strikes me like a whip, and my heart cries out in pain. I have to see them again. I have to.
Hands rest on my shoulders. “You have a chance to survive this. I will help you.”
My head lifts with a gasp. I mouth the word, “Why?”
His hands move away. “It is my job to keep you well, so you can do your tasks as Messenger.”
I’m no better off than a cow or pig being prepped to be slaughtered. How unfortunate. If I’m to get through this I need to be numb. Tucking away my emotions, I lift a determined chin and prepare myself for what awaits.
“I thought you could practice walking around without the blindfold,” he says.
I nod, eager to get this off.
With gentle fingers, he unties the sash. “Keep your head and gaze down. That will help.”
I blink until I can see. The first thing in my line of sight besides the light wood floor is a pair of black boots. His boots. They are shiny and large, but then he is tall, a head taller than me. The temptation to follow those boots upward and take in the boy before me is agonizing. Even if I weren’t curious by nature, I’d want to know who is caring for me. Wait. That’s not right. He’s not caring for me. He’s holding me captive—or is he just his mother’s puppet? A prisoner like me, forced to do her bidding? Perhaps he can help me get word to my family that I’m all right and so very sorry for deceiving them. Perhaps he can truly help me survive this, and I can return home in the end.
I need to dedicate myself to doing everything right. First, though, I need to know one thing. Keeping my head down, I pretend to hold a quill and scroll on paper.
“You would like to write a letter?” he asks.
Clever boy. “I would like to communicate with you, and since speaking isn’t possible without being asked a direct question, I thought it could help me learn things. Like your name.”
He steps back.
“You know mine,” I add. “It’s only fair I know yours.”
He backs away more. “I am to direct you, and you are to follow my instructions. There is no need for you to know my name.”
Not a question. Darn. No pen, either.
Again, I lift my hand and fake scrolling on paper.
When he doesn’t respond or move from his spot, I close my eyes and lift my face. I touch my palms together, silently pleading for him to do this for me.
“I don’t know if I’m permitted to provide paper and pen for you. No one has ever asked for such things.” His shoes tap in the direction of the fireplace and then back toward me. I can sense his frustration. He stops not too far behind me. “But then again you are not the typical Messenger. Preya with two different colored eyes,” he whispers the last sentence, his voice soft with emotions.
My name has never sounded prettier.
I turn my face to him, wondering something and daring to ask it. Maybe my defiance will convince him to help me, as he so states is his duty. “Do you fear the two different colors are a mark of darkness?”
He clears his throat, seeming unsettled, and takes a moment to respond. “Not a mark of darkness, but a symbol no less.”
“What kind of symbol?” The words slip out. I draw in a breath and brace myself for the pain that mistake might cause me. Nothing happens. Does that mean I can speak freely when I’m in the cottage? The only way to know is to ask. I open my mouth—
“Wait!” he calls out.
I slam my lips together.
Seconds tick by and anxiety curls in my stomach.
Finally, he says, “You may ask me anything you wish until I tell you otherwise.”
I suck in a breath, and my eyelashes flutter open with surprise.
“Do not look at me,” he barks.
I drop my head and squeeze my eyes closed. He grants me a wish, and I ruin it by almost looking at him. I need to focus. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fail you or my family.”
“Fail me?” he asks as if the words are foreign to him.
“I assume my ability to serve your mother reflects on you as you are my teacher. Therefore, if I do well for you, I will do well for her, and we both will be rewarded in the end. I’ll get my freedom, and you’ll get ... what would you get?” Eyes closed, I lift my face to him. “What would you want?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“You gave me permission to.”
“Not those kinds of questions.” His boots shuffle toward the door.
“Forgive me, Keeper,” I add, not knowing what else to call him. Boy feels too disrespectful, and I can’t have him angry with me. “I did not mean to offend you. Please don’t go.”
“Daceian,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “My name is Daceian. I prefer it to Keeper.”
Dace-y-an. I sound it out in my head. What a lovely name.
“Thank you for sharing that with me.” I smile. “Will you please stay, Daceian?”
His hesitation has me bowing my head and opening my eyes, so I can walk toward him. His black boots come into view. They’re turned sideways as if he’s about to open the door and leave.
“Please,” I murmur, so curious of what he looks like I have to force my chin to my chest.
“I’ll be back before dusk to collect you.” The door opens, and he disappears outside.
CHAPTER 5
He left, even when I was kind? Just when it seems I’m making progress with him, he takes off. Must be nice to come and go as he pleases.
I stare at the door and shift my gaze to the handle. Is it locked? Like the last time, I didn’t hear a click.
What would happen if I were to open it? Would Daceian return?
The moment my fingers curl around the handle, the plant on the shelf comes to life. The leaves flap and two in the center part, like a mouth opening. High-pitched squawking blasts throughout the cottage.
I cover my ears and cower away. The room darkens back to its dismal, grungy appearance.
“I’m sorry,” I shout over the squawking, apologizing to the plant and the cottage. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
I back up across the room and huddle in the corner, my hands still pressed to my ears.
The plant finally calms down. The leaves fall, curving in a natural way.
My ears continue to ring. Slowly, I straighten and lower my hands to my sides. Ahh. The silence.
Deciding never to do that again, I take cautious steps to the chair and ease onto the lumpy cushion. The title on the book twinkles in gold. The Royal Family. Does the cottage want me to read it? The book is the only constant in this ever-changing place. With nothing else to do but wait for Daceian to return, I pull the heavy book onto my lap and begin reading.
The story is about the monarchy that ended a century ago. I learned about it in history lessons. Queen Alys and her sister Princess Bretta were rare beauties, although different in every way. Alys was
fair skinned with strawberry blonde hair, which is common among our people. Bretta’s skin was olive and her hair as dark as night. Their personalities were opposites, too. While Alys was kind and gentle, Bretta was jealous and hot-tempered.
The villagers blamed her outbursts on her different appearance. They claimed she was Kissed by darkness. Some even questioned her paternity. Neither the king nor the queen shared her coloring. But the king was quick to remind the people his great grandmother had dark hair and olive skin. When he and the queen passed away, Alys was crowned in their place. The villagers adored her, but they never warmed to princess Bretta.
Tired of being second to her sister, Bretta sought a Mystic who had been exiled for practicing dark magic. She made a deal with him, promising to welcome him back to the village as her private Seer if he would curse the queen so Bretta could claim the throne.
The Mystic agreed, but only if the princess made him her Royal Commander, a position Bretta had already promised to her lover. When she countered with the offer of Royal Seer or nothing at all, the Mystic cursed the village instead.
Every Summer Solstice when the Washer Woman rises, it’s a harsh reminder of Bretta’s betrayal to her sister, the crown, the village, and the scorned Mystic.
I turn the page and find an image of villagers on their knees by the river, praising the cursed Hag. I remember this story. My breath heats at the ignorance it portrays.
Decades ago, some villagers—and perhaps a few still today—believed the Washer Woman is considerate, often choosing elders or the sickly as her victims.
I know otherwise. If she were kind, she wouldn’t have chosen my mother, a woman whose sole existence was to please and care for her family. There wasn’t a selfish bone in my mother’s body. She wasn’t ill nor was she old when the Messenger delivered Mother’s blood-stained blouse to our manor.
My muscles clench, anger and guilt gripping me tight. If only I’d been stronger back then, I could have helped Father save her instead of doing nothing.
A thought crosses my mind. I close the book and sit taller in the chair.
I can’t change the past, but maybe I can change the future. Fate chose me as Messenger for a reason. Mother always said I was special. Could my destiny be to seek vengeance for her death by destroying the Washer Woman? I’ve never thought of myself as a violent person, but perhaps I could do it to save my sisters and innocents in the village who are Fated to Die.
No one has ever broken a rule with the Washer Woman and survived, but has anyone tried to destroy her? Is it even possible?
The leaves on the plant point at me as if it knows what I’m thinking.
Tensing, I wait to see what it does. Release that deafening squawk? Spit poison at me?
The big leaf at the top moves up and down like it’s nodding.
I gulp. It can hear my thoughts.
A moment later, the leaves soften to their restful position.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Such a strange place. Clearing my mind, I set the book on the table and stand to stretch my stiff legs.
A knock sounds on the door, followed by two quick raps.
I turn away and close my eyes.
The door creaks open and footsteps fall onto the wood floors.
“Daceian?” I ask.
“You’re not wearing your blindfold,” he says, shuffling closer to me.
“Should I be?”
“You turned around. You’re learning. Whether you are ready to face my mother remains to be seen. We are out of time to train you, and you cannot wear the blindfold in her presence.”
I lift my head but keep my eyes closed. “Why is that? So I’m more likely to break a rule?”
“Are your eyes closed?” he asks instead of answering me.
I mash my lips together and give a curt nod.
“Good. Keep them closed. I’m coming around to the front of you.”
A shadow blocks the small amount of light shining through my closed eyelids. The scent of cloves hits me next. I lift my chin and breathe him in.
His hands brush my long hair behind my shoulders. “Do you never wear your hair up?”
“Does it bother you down?” I ask, hopeful. It’d be nice to have something over him since he has so many things over me.
“No.” His voice is soft. “If it were up, I couldn’t enjoy the pale shade and soft curls as much as I do. It is lovely, though uncustomary. Proper maidens don’t wear their hair down. Not the ones I’ve known.”
My ego aches with a familiar pain. The kids in the village used to say similar things. Maybe not in such a nice way. Still, his words sit wrong with me. That and the idea of him with other maidens. His job is to care for them. It shouldn’t bother me.
“I bet you’ve known many maidens in your lifetime,” I say. Bitterness laces my tone. Goodness. Where did that come from?
“Sadly, yes. More than I care to have known. They didn’t deserve to be here anymore than you do.” He tugs the sleeves to my dress, startling me.
I lean away. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you look your best for when you greet—”
“Your mother,” I finish his sentence. My tone is casual like I’m talking to a friend, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I was going to say the Washer Woman. If you think of her as the dark creature she is, you’ll fear her power and be less likely to make a mistake.” The skirt to my dress pulls like he’s straightening wrinkles.
I almost open my eyes to make sure he gets them all. To ensure I don’t, I lift my face to the ceiling.
His warm breath caresses my cheeks and nose, alerting me that he’s close, looming over me. I can feel his gaze on my face. It makes me wonder what his eyes are like. Big? Slanted? Animal-like? Human? Are they silver all the time, or do they change into a normal color? Father says my eyes get darker when I’m angry and that Mother’s did the same.
The logical part of my brain says I should be afraid of this person—creature?—but I’m not. Perhaps, it’s his steady calm, or the sadness I detect in his tone. He seems lonely. Is his face, human or otherwise, as expressive as his voice? I may never know.
He tucks a stray hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing my cheek so gently it could be a butterfly’s wing.
I shiver and hope he doesn’t notice. Did he mean to touch me so sweetly, or was it an accident?
My skin still tingles where he touched it in the most pleasant way. I stop myself from cupping my cheek. I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking or feeling. Helpful or not, I have no reason to trust him, even if he did give me permission to speak.
“Have you ever cared for one of the maidens in your keep?” I’m only asking to get a better understanding of his character and to see if he’s capable of deeper emotions. It’s harmless.
“It is my job to care for them while they stay in the cottage.”
“But have you ever cared for one of them in here?” In a bold move, I place my hand on his chest, hoping it’s near his heart.
He makes a small gasp but doesn’t back away or remove my hand.
Light thumping pulses under my palm. My lips part with a smile. “Your heart beats like mine.”
“That’s because I am human, regardless of the curse. And no. I have not held affection for any of the maidens in my keep. I am forbidden to care for them beyond my duties.” Sorrow and frustration ring in his tone, and I find myself wanting to soothe him.
“You’re young, aren’t you? Like me?”
“What makes you think I’m young?” He steps back, causing my hand to fall from his chest.
“You sound it, and you sound torn. Most people my age are unsure. It’s hard to always do what is expected of you.”
The air stirs near my cheek with a light breeze. Is he about to touch my face again?
“I am seventeen,” he says to my surprise, not because of his age, but because he answered my question directly. “I have never opened my heart to ano
ther. Never courted a girl. Never kissed one.” Soft fingers glide across my cheek down to my chin, that pleasant tingle following his touch.
“Would you like to kiss me?” I ask. The offer is to win him over. If I can get him to fall for me, to trust me, I could use him to help me carry out my plan of ridding the village of the curse.
“Yes.” He answers in a whisper, the yearning in his voice making him sound grateful for the offer.
My heart flutters against my will. I should not be excited. I should be scared. He says he’s human, but that doesn’t mean he looks like one. He could be part animal with sharp teeth. I didn’t think this through.
I open my mouth to take back the offer.
“But I won’t,” he says before I can speak. “Not now. Perhaps not ever. Would you like me to repeat the rules before I take you to meet the Washer Woman?” His voice sounds distant, like he’s moved away.
I nod and try my hardest to focus on his words, but my emotions keep butting in. Why did he refuse my kiss? I’ve been told I resemble my mother and she was beautiful. Espen found me attractive, even with my anomalies. Despite the jaunts from the village boys, I’ve caught a few eyeing me with interest when they think no one is watching.
I might have been able to tempt one of them to kiss me, but not Daceian. Not the boy whose deep voice is as soothing as a bedtime story, whose touch is as gentle as a whisper, whose indifferent demeanor makes me want to provoke him until he’s as aggravated as I am. Maybe then he’ll understand how frustrating it is to be held captive, and by someone you can’t look at, or how heart-wrenching it is not to tell your family you’re all right, when you know they fear the worst.
I don’t even know I’m shaking my head until Daceian’s hands cup my cheeks. “You need to rid yourself of that inner fire before meeting her. She will not turn a blind eye to it.”
Inner fire. My jaw tightens. “My grandmother used to describe me in that way. She said, I have too much fire in my soul. My mother always disagreed, calling it passion, but my grandmother never saw it that way. To her, I was unacceptable. To the village and Council, I’m unacceptable, yet it’s fine for them to ridicule me for my differences, as well as sacrifice innocent maidens to the curse. How is that fair?”
